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softspiderling · 2 days ago

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take on me | r.c

──𖤐 summary:

“It’s good you’re here to take care of her, I was a bit worried when she said she would get a cab home.”

“I was trying to let her be independent.”

“I am independent,” you argued with a frown and Rafe snickered, standing up.

“Yes, you are.”

OR; you have to get your wisdom teeth removed and are adamant about recovering by yourself. Your best friends have other plans, though.

──𖤐 pairing: rafe cameron x reader

──𖤐 warnings: takes place pre-illicit affairs, very inaccurate description of getting your wisdom teeth removed, boys being boys

──𖤐 word count: 2.1k

──𖤐 author's note: this was not planned, like at all. i did a speed run of this at work when @carrerascameron talked about her getting her wisdom tooth removed and imagined Precious in the scenario, so this is dedicated to you! thanks for the inspo and hope you feel better soon🫶🏼 also why is this me somehow stretching the series, bc i already miss writing for them😭 let’s not think about tho hope you enjoy, happy reading🩷

PS: this is within the illicit affairs universe, but is not part of the series. this can be read as a standalone fic!

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“You can do this,” you muttered to yourself, as you were sitting in the waiting room of the doctor’s office.

This being getting your wisdom teeth removed.

By yourself.

And then going home.

Where you were also going to be by yourself.

Your parents had gone to Orange County to visit your grandparents and you had set the appointment, forgetting they had plans. But that wouldn’t be a problem, right? You were a big girl. It was just a simple procedure, not a big deal. Even if Rafe had tried to scare you.

“Precious, getting your wisdom teeth is no joke, Sarah was delirious for a whole week,” he had said, but you only waved him off, because what did he know?

Well, it turned out, he knew exactly what he was talking about.

It was during the last half hour before the procedure, as the doctor explained the procedure to you one last time, when you slowly realized, to your horror, that you absolutely could not do this. But you tried not to let it show, because how embarassing would that be?You only smiled at the doctor, nodding to show you understand, while you were freaking out on the inside.

“Alright, you can follow me, I’m gonna take you to the procedure room,” the nurse said, after the doctor had left the room, and then, you started panicking for real.

“Wait, can I just quickly do something on my phone?” you asked her and the nurse nodded, understanding.

Quickly, you grabbed your phone to text Rafe.

rafe [19/04/23: 8:26 am]: let me know how the procedure goes

Precious [19/04/23: 8:30 am]: omg stop babying me

Precious [19/04/23: 8:30 am]: i’m a grown and independent woman, i can handle this.

────── NEW MESSAGE ──────

Precious [19/04/23: 9:45 pm]: i was wrong, i’m totally not a grown and independent woman

You weren’t sure why, but you just had to voice out your fears, and then you’d fell better, less scared.

At least that was what you told yourself. Sticking your phone back into your purse, you inhaled deeply, but quietly, before facing the nurse again, braving a smile.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

An hour later, you were back in the patient room, laid in the bed, a cooling pad pressed against your cheek. You were still drowsy from the anesthesia, and the doctor had told you to wait at least half an hour before calling your cab. You thought about waiting much longer, considering the state you were in.

A gentle knock on your door made you look up, and it was the nurse sticking her head inside the room, smiling at you.

“Someone’s here to see you,” the nurse said gently, before coming inside, and no one other than Rafe was right behind her, his forehead creased with worry.

“Rafe?” you asked, confused, though it sounded more like Wafe? with the swelling in your mouth.

“Precious,” Rafe sighed, sitting down at the end of your bed. “Didn’t I tell you that you’d be freaked out?”

He squeezed your ankle affectionately, before turning towards the nurse.

“Is it okay if I take her home?” he asked her and she nodded, handing him your papers and a bag with what you assumed was medication.

“Yes, that’s fine. Make sure she drinks lots of water. The anesthesia will wear off soon, and she’ll start to feel the pain. We’ve prescribed her some painkillers, and it’s okay if she takes ibuprofen, too,” the nurse told him and Rafe hummed dutifully.

You were still confused.

“I assume we’ll just call the front desk if we have any questions?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“What?” you blurted out and Rafe turned to you with an exasperated smile, while the nurse laughed.

“She’s still loopy from the anesthesia, that’s completely normal,” she explained and Rafe sighed, chuckling. “It’s good you’re here to take care of her, I was a bit worried when she said she would get a cab home.”

“I was trying to let her be independent.”

“I am independent,” you argued, with a frown and Rafe snickered, standing up.

“Yes, you are. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Packing up your stuff, Rafe let you lean on him as the nurse walked you out, waving from the door as Rafe helped you in the car. The way home passed by in a blur and before you knew it, you were already walking through the front door, Rafe’s arm around your waist.

“Bed or couch?”

“Couch,” you replied, and Rafe took you to the living room, where you quickly curled up on the couch. You sighed softly, already feeling so much better in the safety of your own home.

Rafe left you to your own devices, disappearing somewhere in the back of the house, but it wasn’t long beforr he returned with a fresh ice pack, exchanging it with the one that was basically water at this point.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, wincing when you held the fresh ice pack against your cheek. Even though Rafe had wrapped it in a towel, it was still bitingly cold.

“‘course.”

Rafe sat down on the arm rest of the couch, careful not to tug in your hair, reaching out to brush a few stray strands of hair off your forehead. It was nice like this, and you almost dozed off, still loopy from the anesthesia. The sound of the front door opening, however, piqued your interest and you frowned at Rafe.

“Who’s that?”

“Must be the boys,” Rafe told you and you let out a small huff, getting up.

“Precious, what are you doing?” Rafe asked, exasperated, but you had already followed the sound of the boys, who had apparently brought Whole Foods’ entire stock with them, making camp in your kitchen.

“Hey Precious, how are you doing?” Kelce asked, dumping the grocery bags on the counter. Topper lifted his head to look at you, narrowing his eyes.

“Your cheeks don’t look half as swollen as Rafe had said.”

“Thanks for that,” Rafe said dryly, coming into the kitchen behind you. You only glowered at him, before setting your sights back on Topper and Kelce.

“What are you doing here?”

“We brought groceries, obviously.”

You jutted your lower lip out when Topper pulled out two sixers of beer and a bag full of steaks.

“I can’t have any of that,” you complained and Topper sighed.

“It’s obviously not for you.”

“These are for you,” Kelce said, sliding a pack of your favorite popsicles on the counter. You only frowned.

“Who even invited you here to grill steaks and drink beer,” you grumbled, already ripping open the container, taking a popsicle out, watching as Rafe joined them, unpacking the groceries in your kitchen, apparently.

You had made it your mission to observe, and occasionally comment, while you ate your popsicle.

Your victim?

Topper.

“What’s that,” you asked, when Topper pulled out a takeaway container from a brown paper bag.

“Mash,” he replied, distracted, already pulling out different container from yet another paper bag. Seriously, did they just hit up ever single shop on the island?

“What’s that.”

“Tomato soup.”

Topper set a six pack of gatorade on the counter, glancing at you, like he knew what was coming and you only grinned. Well, as much as you could, anyway.

“… What’s that.”

“Jesus, Precious, aren’t you supposed to rest your mouth to heal?” he bitched at you and you snickered. “Just shut up and eat your damn popsicle.”

You heaved yourself on the kitchen island to watch the guys putter around the kitchen, still unsure why they were here.

“Do you want mash or soup?” Rafe asked you, gently pushing your legs to the side, to open the drawer where you kept the bowls.

You didn’t have enough mental capacity to make a decision. So you didn’t.

“Both.”

Rafe made you two small bowls, one with soup and one with mash respectively, adding a bottle of gatorade to the counter.

“Eat this and finish that gatorade, alright? You’re gonna be in pain when that anesthesia wears off and I just know you’re gonna pump yourself full of painkillers, so get some food into you,” he told you and you were barely able to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“I’ll go heat up the grill,” Kelce then announced, heading outside and you followed him with your eyes, your annoyance focusing on him as you tosed the popsicle stick in the trash.

“Why are you pouting?” Rafe sighed and you gave him a look.

“Why are you here.”

“To use your pool, obviously,” Topper replied in passing, carrying your cooler outside. You threw a death glare at his retreating form, and Rafe only laughed quietly, shaking his head. He leaned on the counter, his hands on either side of your legs.

“Do you want to eat inside or come out to the backyard with us?”

You frowned. Mostly because you were annoyed that he was treating you like a baby, but also because you liked how he was taking care of you.

But you weren’t gonna tell him that.

“Inside,” you replied, grouchy. “Too hot outside.”

With that, you jumped off the counter, with Rafe making space for you, though you couldn’t help but notice the way his hands were hovering by your waist. Grabbing your two bowls and the gatorade under your arm, you marched yourself back to the couch. You were an independent woman, after all.

Safely arriving in the living room; you put the food on the table, first taking a big sip of your gatorade, before you started eating.

Even though you weren’t hungry, you felt so much better afterwards, if a bit drowsy. No one would blame you if you took a nap, you did undergo a surgery just that morning, and before you knew it, you were passed out on the couch.

You weren’t sure for how long you had napped, but the remaining anesthesia must have left your systems, a dull ache in your jaw waking you from your slumber.

“Ow,” you mumbled drowsily, gently prodding against your cheek with your finger.

Frowning, you looked around the living room. puzzled to see a light blanket draped over your body. When did you get a blanket?

Then, you noticed faint music coming from the backyard and that was when you remembered that you weren’t home alone. Pushing the blanket back, you headed to the backyard, slowly pushing the door open.

The boys were sitting by the table in the shades, a couple of grilled steaks left on a plate, a few open beer bottles strewn on the table, while they played cards. Rafe lifted his head when he heard your foot steps, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a grin.

“Look who’s up,” he grinned and you rolled your eyes at him.

“Don’t test me.”

“Here,” Rafe said, pulling out a pack of ibuprofen out of his pocket. “The anesthesia has worn off, huh?”

“Uh huh.”

Without you saying anything, Kelce pulled a gatorade out of the cooler, placing it in front of you on the table.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, popping an ibuprofen in your mouth, before washing it down with the gatorade, looking around the backyard. You must have slept longer than you thought, the sun just starting to set, painting your backyard in a golden hue. The boys really spent their entire day here while you were sleeping. As you looked at the pool, you furrowed your brows, suddenly remembering Topper’s earlier words.

“Hey, you guys have your own pools!”

“Man, nothing gets past you, huh Precious?” Topper sighed, tossing his cards down to lean back in his chair, looking at you.

So they came to take care of you.

“I’m a big girl,” you argued. “You didn’t have to come here to look after me.”

“Of course we didn’t, you fucking clown,” Kelce sniffed, giving you a dirty look. You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest, taking a beat to stand your ground, before you sat down next to Kelce.

“Thanks,” you grumbled, trying not to show how grateful you were for them, kicking Rafe’s leg affectionately. They had all turned up, but you knew that Rafe spearheaded this. He raised an eyebrow at you, winking secretly and you tried to ignore your cheeks heating up. You must still be loopy from the anesthesia.

“Women are so easy to please.”

“Shut up, Top.”

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author's note: well.... this was unexpected, I know! but what do you guys think? 👀

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #RAFE CAMERON x you #RAFE CAMERON fanfiction #RAFE CAMERON fanfic #RAFE CAMERON fic #rafe cameron imagine #rafe x you #obx #drew starkey

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buckysleftbicep · 1 day ago

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for better or for worse (7) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, bucky breaking down, flashbacks, fluff if you squint

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 6k

author's note: hi sweethearts! wow, i actually finished this series! thank you all so, so much for your love and support, gosh, it means the world to me, and if i could thank you guys with a huge hug, i would 💓. this series means a lot to me, i have so many different ways to end it, i think i had 3, and this is one of them 🫶🏻 thank you all so much for staying and for finishing this series with me 💌 love you guys and stay safe out there!

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The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional hiss of the oxygen line. Pale morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, slicing the space into uneven golden strips that barely touched the corners.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a bouquet someone had left two days ago already beginning to droop in its plastic vase.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

Yelena stepped in, her hair a little messier than usual and two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days either—the kind of exhaustion that sat behind the eyes, silent and weighty—but she carried it better than most. She always did.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked in slowly, boots soft against the linoleum, eyes flicking toward the only occupied bed.

Bucky was already awake.

Curled awkwardly in a too-small hospital-issued foldable cot, the sheet tangled around his legs like it had been kicked off in a restless sleep. If you could even call it that.

He sat hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed as his fingers toyed with the worn edge of a medical bracelet still looped around his wrist from when he’d refused to leave the ER that night.

He looked up when he heard her—or maybe just sensed her presence—and Yelena caught the full brunt of what the last five days had done to him.

His eyes were bruised with fatigue, red-rimmed and glassy. The stubble across his jaw had darkened into something more permanent. His hair was a mess—not the charming, tousled kind, but the kind born of sleepless nights and fingers dragged through it too many times out of pure frustration.

The navy blue t-shirt clung to his frame like it had been slept in. The sweatpants sagged slightly at the hips. He didn’t look like a soldier, he looked like a man desperately holding himself together by a thread.

“We found him,” Yelena said softly, breaking the silence as she approached. “Raskovic.”

Bucky didn’t react right away. Just blinked up at her, like he had to translate the words in his head before they could settle.

“And?” His voice was low, rough—not from sleep, but from disuse.

She sighed, offering him one of the coffees. “We haven’t gotten much. He’s not talking. Won’t give up the rest of the weapons cache.”

He took the cup without meeting her eyes, fingers curling tightly around the warmth like it was the only thing grounding him. He didn’t drink it, didn’t speak. Just let the silence fall again, heavier this time.

Yelena studied him for a moment—really studied him.

The way he hadn’t moved from that chair for nearly five days.

The way the cot hadn’t even been laid flat most nights.

The way he looked at you every hour, on the hour, as if just by watching hard enough, he could will your eyes to open.

“You should rest,” she said gently, crouching beside him. “Bucky… it’s been five days. You need to—”

“No.” He cut her off, firm but not sharp. Just final. Like the decision had already been carved into stone. “I’m staying. The doctors said… they said she could wake up any moment.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I need to be the first face she sees.”

Yelena swallowed. There wasn’t anything she could say to that.

Not really.

Not when she’d watched him refuse to leave even once, not even to shower. Not when John, Alexei, and even Bob had tried every tactic short of physically dragging him out, and still—still—he hadn’t budged.

He’d brushed his teeth in the tiny public restroom by the elevators. Bought protein bars and shitty vending machine sandwiches. Sat by your bed, hour after hour, whispering things he didn’t think anyone could hear.

There was nothing she could say. So she just nodded, gently, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

The door clicked shut behind Yelena, leaving the room in its usual hush—the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around your throat and refused to let go. Too still. Too loud. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but suffocated.

Outside, the world was slowly waking—nurses exchanging shifts, machines humming behind closed doors—but in here, time had collapsed into a slow, dragging ache.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, sterile and cold, casting a pale sheen over the metal railings and tile floor. Even they seemed to dim beneath the heaviness in the air. Like the room itself knew how close it had come to losing you.

Bucky turned toward you.

He moved like it hurt. Like his limbs had forgotten how to function under the weight of what they’d carried for the last five days. His gaze dropped to your hand—pale and unmoving, the skin bruised beneath the tape and gauze, fingers limp where they lay curled near your hip.

The IV line trailed upward to the bag above your head, slow and methodical, like it had all the time in the world.

But he didn’t.

The sheet had been drawn neatly to your waist, the corners folded with practiced care. But Bucky had seen beneath it. He’d memorised the cuts, the dressings, the angry bruises blooming along your ribs.

He’d scrubbed your blood from his hands in the emergency room sink, over and over, until they were raw. Until there was nothing left but the ghost of your voice in his head.

He reached out—slowly, carefully, like one wrong move might shatter you all over again—and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The contrast was stark: his calloused, battered hands, and yours, soft and still. He held on like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice barely there—cracked and raw, like it had been scraped against too many sleepless nights. “I know you can hear me. Please…”

His eyes squeezed shut as he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the back of your hand. The contact was fragile, gentle. His breath hitched against your skin.

“Please wake up,” he whispered.

It wasn’t just a plea.

It was a surrender.

The words hung in the air, splintered and fraying at the edges—the way a man breaks when there’s no one left to see it. When the fight runs out, and all that’s left is the ache.

His lips brushed your knuckles, soft and lingering, like he could pour everything he hadn’t said into that single touch. Like if he kissed you gently enough, it might undo what the world had done to you.

His hand trembled around yours, chest rising in short, unsteady bursts. He’d spent the last five days holding it together—barely—and the cracks were beginning to show.

A single tear slid down his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw like it had every right to be there.

“Don’t go breaking my heart now, doll,” he whispered.

And it wasn’t just tenderness in his voice. It was fear. Bone-deep, marrow-carving fear.

Because Bucky Barnes had spent the last five days living in a world where nothing he did was enough—where holding your hand, begging, waiting, breaking, hadn’t been enough to undo the sight of you going still in his arms. Of blood on concrete. Of your eyes fluttering closed while he screamed.

He had faced war, torture, brainwashing—hell itself—and nothing had ever scared him like this.

He didn’t know how to live in a world where you didn’t come back.

He didn’t want to.

The memory came like a tide—slow and gentle—washing over Bucky where he sat now, curled at your bedside, hand still laced with yours.

It had been quiet then, too. Not like the sterile hush of a hospital, but something warm. Alive. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones without asking permission, that made everything else—pain, history, guilt—feel far away for just a moment.

The dock creaked beneath his feet as Sam’s boat rocked gently with the tide, tethered but still breathing with the water. The sky had melted into soft amber, streaks of orange and pink dripping into the still, dark ocean like brushstrokes on silk.

The air was thick with the scent of salt and sugar—someone onshore frying something sweet, maybe beignets or funnel cake—and the breeze tasted like summer. Warm, lazy, golden.

Somewhere behind him, Sam and Sarah laughed over an engine that refused to start, and AJ’s voice rang out, high and playful, a child’s joy unburdened by the weight of the world.

The sounds of a family.

You sat beside him on the edge of the boat’s stairs, knees pulled up, paper plate balanced in your lap. The hem of your shirt fluttered in the breeze. Your bare feet tapped gently against the wood, relaxed, alive. Like you belonged there.

You nudged the plate toward him without looking.

“Cake,” you said simply.

He took it from you, fingers brushing yours—a soft, accidental touch that lingered longer than it should’ve. He muttered a quiet, almost bashful, “Thanks,” eyes still cast toward the horizon.

But he didn’t eat it. Just sat there, the plate warm in his lap, staring out like the ocean might give him an answer if he looked long enough. The world had gone quiet in his chest for the first time in days, and it scared him more than he let on.

Peace wasn’t something he knew how to hold. Not really.

Then, quietly—almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud—“You think I deserve this?”

You turned to him, brows drawing in slightly. “Deserve what?”

His eyes were still on the water, unmoving. But his voice—that voice—was steady. Careful.

“Peace.”

It was such a simple word. But the weight it carried in his mouth was enormous. Like it didn’t belong to him. Like saying it out loud might make it vanish. Like wanting peace made him weak.

You didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the dying light—how it hit the high points of his face, turned his lashes gold, softened the lines etched deep into his forehead. How his jaw clenched, how his shoulders never fully relaxed.

There was a quiet awe to him then, even in stillness. Even in pain. Like he didn’t know what to do with a moment that didn’t come with gunfire or consequences.

You smiled, slow and sad. “You do, James.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and it almost hurt, the way your voice curled around his name like it was something worth holding.

“After everything,” you went on gently, “you deserve so much more than what the world gave you.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly around the paper plate, untouched cake still resting there. Like he needed to hold onto something just to stay grounded.

“But there’s so many people I—” he started, voice strained, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand found his, warm and certain, sliding over his knuckles like an anchor. You didn’t grip too hard. You didn’t need to.

“It wasn’t you,” you said. “You never had a choice. None of it was your fault.”

The wind tugged at your hair. The sky kept burning gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang from a ship docking further down the bay.

But here, on the steps of Sam’s old boat, time had frozen—like the world was giving him permission to stop running. Just for a second.

And for the first time in a very long time, something shifted in him.

Something cracked open. A softness he hadn’t known how to hold. A thought he hadn’t dared entertain—that maybe he could want something. Someone.

That maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

The memory faded, slow and reluctant, like a sunset slipping beneath the water. And when it was gone, Bucky was still there—seated at your bedside in the dim hush of the hospital room, your hand in his, the air too still.

The beeping of the monitor was steady, but too steady. Not fast enough to mean you were waking. Not flat enough to mean you were gone.

That in-between rhythm—it was driving him insane. Mocking him. Reminding him that you were here but not really. Close, but still too far.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise everything all over again. Your lashes against your cheek. The way the corner of your mouth dipped slightly, always slightly, when you slept. The small, near-faded scar on your temple from a mission gone wrong in Marrakesh. Every inch of you mapped onto him like a language only he could read.

And still… nothing.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, thick and tight. He hadn’t spoken in a while—not really. Not since Yelena left, not since the memory of your voice had come back to him, soft and alive and warm in the golden light.

Now it felt like if he opened his mouth, the entire dam might break.

So when he finally did, it came out hoarse. Barely a whisper.

“Please don’t take her away from me.”

It cracked in the middle, fractured down the middle of his chest like a fault line giving way.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “I don’t care about anything else.”

His eyes stayed on you, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked. His fingers tightened faintly around yours.

“Just…” he breathed, voice shaking, “just let her stay. I-I’ll do anything.”

He wasn’t praying. Not really, no, Bucky didn’t believe in that anymore. Hadn’t in decades. Maybe never did.

But he said it anyway—like if he could just get the words out, the universe might hear him.

Might show him mercy, just this once.

Might understand that you were the only good thing left in him.

That without you, everything else didn’t matter.

That if he lost you, there would be nothing left to come back to.

And so he sat there, forehead pressed to your hand again, tears slipping quietly down his face—no sobbing, no shaking, just the steady, exhausted grief of a man begging the world not to take the one person he didn’t know how to live without.

The first thing you registered was the light—too bright, too sharp, cutting through the darkness behind your eyelids like glass.

You blinked, once, twice, and the world came back slowly. Fuzzy around the edges.

The air felt sterile and cold, too clean. The scent of antiseptic curled at the edge of your senses, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then came the pain.

A dull, biting throb that pulsed hot through your leg—enough to steal the breath from your lungs. You winced, the movement sending a shock up your thigh. Your body felt heavy, as if the last week had settled into your bones like lead. It took effort to tilt your head, but you did, wincing as your vision swam.

And then you saw him.

Bucky was slumped beside you in a narrow hospital chair, legs sprawled out awkwardly, one arm still draped across the edge of your bed. His fingers were locked around yours—loosely, like he’d fallen asleep holding on and never let go.

His head was bowed, chin resting against his chest, and for a split second you thought he might have finally passed out from exhaustion. His hair was a mess, strands flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

There were shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His jaw was rough with days-old stubble, his shirt wrinkled and clinging to him in tired lines.

He looked wrecked.

But beautiful.

In that devastating, unguarded way he never let you see when he was awake. Like every sharp edge had been sanded down by worry, like grief had made room for something gentler.

Your chest tightened.

And just like that, it all came rushing back—the warehouse, the blood, the sting of your own scream. The panic in his voice when he found you. The way he’d cradled you against his chest, whispering your name like he could pull you back to the earth with nothing but his breath.

You stared at him now, barely breathing.

Because for all the bruises, for all the exhaustion written into every line of his body, he was still here.

Still holding on.

Like he’d never stopped.

You blinked hard against the prick of tears and let your fingers shift, just slightly, in his hand.

A small squeeze. Barely there.

But it was enough.

He stirred beside you, slow and groggy, like the weight of the last five days was still holding him under.

At first, he didn’t move. Just shifted slightly in the chair, the hand around yours twitching like his body already knew something had changed. Then his head lifted, eyes blinking open, blearily searching the room in that half-conscious fog where dreams hadn’t quite let go yet.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you—awake, breathing, eyes on him.

His breath caught in his throat. His entire body froze.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice rough and thin, barely more than air.

For a second, he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The emotion hit too fast—like it had been waiting just behind his ribs for this exact second to shatter him. His lips parted, a breath escaped, and then—

“Sweetheart.”

It came out like a promise. Like a prayer finally answered. He moved forward, hand cradling your face, thumb trembling where it brushed beneath your eye, over your cheek, as if he needed to touch every inch of you to believe this was real.

You could feel him shaking.

Not violently. Just enough to know that this had broken him in ways you hadn’t seen. That he had fallen apart in the quiet, in the waiting. And now that you were back, he didn’t know how to hold all of it.

His thumb traced down your jaw, reverent. Like you were something fragile, something rare.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice raw. He didn’t let go of your face.

You swallowed, the ache still sharp in your throat. Everything still hur—your leg, your ribs, your eyes—but somehow, right now, it didn’t matter.

You mustered a small, crooked smile. “Think I’m okay. Didn’t Steve used to say ‘break a leg’ before missions?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, a sound that cracked as much as it warmed. His eyes shone—too glassy, too full—but he let the joke carry him for a second. Let it be a tether.

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in something soft, something cracked wide open.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to finally breathe easy.

His forehead was still resting against yours when the silence stretched again—not heavy this time, but fragile. Like something delicate was settling between you, something you both felt but hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It trembled between your shared breath, suspended in that sliver of space where everything had changed and nothing had yet been said.

Bucky pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still cupping your cheek like he couldn’t bring himself to let go—like if he did, you might disappear again, slip through his fingers like smoke.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, his voice low and stripped raw. “That I’d lose you.”

The confession wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it cracked something open between you, split wide and aching. His voice held no armor. No deflection. Just truth—and the unbearable weight of it.

You opened your mouth, not to argue, not really. But he shook his head once, gently, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me finish.”

His chest rose, then fell—one deep breath, then another, like he was trying to steady himself before the dam broke. Like every word cost him something he’d never learned how to give.

“I know I’m not easy,” he began. “I’m rigid. Controlling. I hold onto things too tight, like if I let go, everything might fall apart. I ruin things before I ever deserve them. Before I even let myself hope.”

He blinked down at you, and his expression was ruined—not because he was falling apart, but because he was letting you see it.

Every crack. Every fear. Every piece of him that had been stitched together over years of surviving, now trembling in the quiet between you.

He wasn’t hiding behind protocol or mission strategy or the weight of being Bucky Barnes. Not here. Not now.

“But you…”

His voice caught, just for a moment. He swallowed hard and tried again, slower, like the words had to be dug up from somewhere deep.

“You changed everything. And I didn’t see it at first. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending. I stopped keeping you at arm’s length. And now—” his thumb brushed your cheek again, barely there, “now I can’t imagine anything without you in it.”

He paused, breath uneven, like he was standing in front of a door he didn’t know how to open—afraid of what might be waiting on the other side.

His jaw tensed, like he was bracing himself for impact.

“I can’t lose you. If I do… I’ll have nothing left.”

And he meant it. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a line. It was a quiet, soul-deep truth. One that had been building inside him long before the blood and the gunfire and the scream that had torn from his throat when he thought he’d already lost you.

He exhaled slowly, like he had to push the words past the fear.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I love you. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I just—if there’s still a part of you that wants this… if you’ll still have me…”

His voice broke, just barely, a hitch so small most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did.

“I’m yours.”

He looked at you then, like he was standing on the edge of something sharp and bottomless. Like your silence might be the thing that finally shattered him. Like he would take whatever answer you gave—even if it gutted him—because loving you had never been about control.

Because this wasn’t a man trained to ask for things.

And still—he asked for you.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right—like the words had landed too softly to be real, like they’d slipped through his defenses before he could catch them.

The weight of everything he’d just laid bare sat heavy in the space between you, and it was clear from the flicker in his eyes that it had taken everything he had to give it to you. Now, he didn’t know how to breathe, didn’t know how to hope.

Then, softly, almost like it hurt: “Say something. Please.”

His voice was barely above a whisper—fragile and trembling, held together by nothing but hope and fear and the quiet kind of love that never asked for anything, but still wanted everything.

There was no demand in it. Just raw need. The sound of a man standing at the edge, waiting to see if he’d be pulled back or left to fall.

Your heart ached with the honesty of it. With the way he sat there, waiting—not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not as someone who’d been trained to endure the worst the world could throw at him.

But as a man. Just a man. One who had finally admitted what he wanted, and was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. That he wouldn’t be enough.

You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, and he went still beneath your touch—completely still, like something inside him was holding its breath.

Your thumb swiped gently at the tear trailing down his cheek—a small, quiet thank-you for every part of him he had given you without expecting anything in return. For the courage it took to let himself be seen.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

His eyes shut like the words had cracked something wide open—like they’d found every broken part inside him and flooded it with light. His shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with release, like the tension he’d been carrying since the moment he found you on that warehouse floor had finally let go.

And when he moved, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours, and his breath ghosted across your lips—warm, uneven, shaky.

His hands came up to frame your face, fingertips brushing just beneath your ears, thumbs trembling faintly against your skin. And there was something in his expression that looked a lot like awe—like he couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

You felt your gaze drift down—just slightly—and caught the glint of silver on his hand.

The thin band still wrapped around the fourth finger of his right hand.

The one from the mission.

“You’re still wearing it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—like it startled him, that he still had laughter in him at all. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever take it off.”

There was something unshakable in the way he said it—not possessive, not forced. Just steady. Like this had never been a tactic or a disguise to him. Like it had always been more. Like somewhere along the way, without even meaning to, he’d decided that the ring was already real.

Then, carefully, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, slow, almost tentative, like even now he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. You watched as he pulled out the second ring, slim and silver and achingly familiar. The one he’d never gotten to put on you.

Until now.

He looked up at you again, and this time his smile was smaller. Shyer. A little nervous in the way only he could be, all confidence stripped away, leaving behind something earnest and boyish and real.

“You never let me put it on, remember?”

You met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, you didn’t speak. Just looked at him, this man who had nearly shattered in front of you, who had stayed by your side through blood and silence and pain, who had chosen you even when it wasn’t easy.

And without a word, you extended your hand, left palm facing him, fingers slightly curled, offering it to him like it meant something.

Because it did.

“Now’s your chance,” you murmured.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make it grand. He just took your hand like it was made of glass, something precious, something that had almost been taken from him, and slid the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

His touch was steady now, but his eyes… his eyes told the truth. They shimmered with a kind of wonder, like he couldn’t believe he got to do this. That you were letting him.

When the band settled into place, his lips found the center of your palm, pressing there softly, not rushed, just sure.

Like a vow made without words.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like home.

One week later, the compound felt like a strange mix of familiar and surreal. The sterile hallways and reinforced doors hadn’t changed, but everything else had. Or maybe it was just you.

You were home. Bruised, still limping, a dull ache riding your spine every time you moved too fast, but alive. Healing. Whole enough to smile when someone cracked a joke. Stable enough to tease John back. Present enough to notice the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the glass atrium instead of the pain it lit up in your leg.

The team had been insufferable, in the way that only people who loved you could be.

Bob made soup. Every day. Different flavours, each one weirder than the last, like he was trying to test the boundaries of what counted as comfort food.

The last one had contained turmeric, coconut milk, and what he swore up and down were healing enzymes. You hadn't asked. You just nodded, thanked him, the smile on his face grew brighter.

Alexei had taken it upon himself to be your personal chauffeur. The man had nearly gotten into a shouting match with a medbot over who was allowed to push your wheelchair. He’d won. Somehow.

And ever since, he wheeled you around like a race car driver, dramatic turns, Russian commentary, occasional sound effects, and all. “Turn three, is hairpin! Hold on!” he’d shout gleefully.

John yelled at the medbots on your behalf. Loudly. Colourfully. "Come on!" he'd barked after the fifth proximity alert went off near your bed, like the bots had something personal against you.

The medbot responded with a passive-aggressive buzz. John flipped it off. The medbot flipped the switch back, in its own, uncanny little way. You were pretty sure it had been programmed just for him.

And Bucky?

He stayed close, but not hovering. A hand always offered before you asked. A look always checking, just in case.

He’d been quieter these days, not distant, just steady. Like now that he’d said it, now that you’d both said it, he didn’t have to force anything.

He could just… be. With you. No more waiting, no more pretending. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had chosen you every day, even when you couldn’t see it.

You were curled up on the couch in the common room, a blanket across your lap and a hot pack on your hip when Yelena dropped down beside you. She handed you a cup of orange juice—cold, freshly poured.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat close, shoulder brushing yours.

Then she nudged you gently, her gaze tilted your way, curious. A little soft at the edges, like maybe she'd been waiting for the right moment to ask.

“How’s you and Bucky?”

You looked down instinctively, your fingers brushing the ring now resting on your left hand.

“I never thought I could find happiness,” you said after a moment, voice quieter than you intended. “Not really. Not like this. But with him… it feels real.”

Yelena’s eyes softened. She reached over and squeezed your hand.

“You deserve it,” she said simply. “You both do.”

You let your head rest against her shoulder, the blanket shifting slightly as you moved. Your chest felt warm, not from the heating pad, but from the way she said it.

After a beat, Yelena added, deadpan, “Val says she’ll pay for your honeymoon.”

You wrinkled your nose. “No thank you.”

She smirked. “You don’t want a government-sponsored vacation? With gps tracking and an optional mission brief?”

“I’d rather eat more of Bob’s soup.”

Behind you, from the kitchen, Bob yelled, “Hey!” You didn’t even turn around.

Laughter spilled into the room, light and easy, stretching out across the space like sunlight through glass.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself sink into it.

A few weeks had passed, and life had begun to stitch itself into something that resembled normal. Not the kind of normal you'd known before, not pre-mission, but something quieter. Softer. A version of normal that fit into slow mornings and shared looks across rooms.

It was healing, in its own strange way. A patchwork of bruises and blooming, of awkward firsts and familiar silences.

You still limped some days. Bucky still flinched at sudden noises.

But there was laughter now. There was warmth.

So when Bucky told you to meet him at the compound garage at 7 p.m, and added, almost shyly, “Dress nice” —you didn’t question it. Not out loud, anyway.

You just raised an eyebrow, and he gave you that look. The one that meant, Trust me.

You tried to pry it out of John first. Predictable. Blunt-force obvious. And somehow, somehow, the man managed to keep his mouth shut. Not even a hint.

“He made me swear,” he said with smugness. “I’m not breaking that.”

You stared at him. “Seriously? As if that ever stopped you.” You quipped, jokingly.

John just grinned. “You think I want to be the reason he throws me through a wall?”

Alexei was no better. He distracted you for a good hour with a wild, mostly unverifiable story about his glory days involving a Russian circus, a helicopter, and what may have been a tiger.

You weren’t sure if the entire thing was real or if he’d just been buying time, but he kept looking at the clock like it owed him something.

“Do not worry,” he said, patting your shoulder. “Is worth it.”

And then it was seven.

You made your way down the corridor, heels tapping softly against the concrete, nerves low in your belly even though you didn’t have a reason to be nervous.

The garage doors were half-open. The light inside was warm, glowing.

You stepped through.

And your breath caught.

There he was.

Bucky stood just a few feet away, dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was neatly pushed back, the kind of effort he only made back when he was a congressman and that, that had been after you told him he can’t walk into the capitol with his hair in a mess.

You both argued over that, sort of, but when you saw him on your television, hair slicked back, you had smiled.

In his hand was a bouquet, mismatched wildflowers, soft pinks and whites and sprigs of green,like he hadn’t just picked the nicest flowers and wrapped them himself, but the ones that looked most like you.

And behind him, tucked into the far corner of the garage, was a small table for two. White tablecloth. Candles flickering inside glass jars. A few strands of string lights hung above it, casting the scene in a golden, dreamlike glow.

A single speaker sat nearby, humming something low and instrumental, a soft jazz tune you vaguely recognized, the kind that filled a room without asking too much of it.

“What’s all this?” you asked, your voice catching slightly on the edges. You felt breathless. Not from shock, but from the tenderness of it all.

He gave a shrug, casual, but not careless. There was a nervous twitch to it, like he wasn’t quite sure how you were going to react. Like part of him still expected this to be too much. Or not enough.

“I figured…” He glanced away, then back at you. “I never got to take you on a real date. I wanted to do it right this time.”

You stared at him for a second longer, because it hit you all at once—the candles, the table, the flowers, him.

Every moment that had led to this one. Every choice, every ache, every time he could have walked away and didn’t.

The man who'd stormed into a warehouse for you, who had stayed awake five nights just to be the first thing you saw—he was here. In jeans. With wildflowers.

You stepped forward, eyes still on his, and took the flowers from his hand. Your fingers brushed his, and he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in, just slightly, like he was anchoring himself in the contact.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, a grin tugging at your mouth despite the lump rising in your throat.

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched warm between two people who no longer needed to rush. Who had already survived the worst and come out of it not just intact, but better.

Then his head tilted, the corner of his mouth tugging up into that familiar, crooked smirk that always made your heart skip a beat.

“So… Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice low, teasing, soft. “You free tonight?”

Your smile bloomed, wide and stupid and completely uncontained—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, your lungs, your bones. The kind that had once felt impossible and now came easy, like breathing.

“For you, Always.”

a/n: oh my gosh, we are at the end!!! ❤️ i am so grateful for each and everyone of you for taking the time to read this series, for your support, kind words that really motivated me to keep this series going 💌.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes@that-daughter-of-hephaestus

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edai-crplpnk · 3 days ago

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[Disclaimer that I am a tag wrangler but I'm just speaking out of my personal opinions here]

I wish this was true, and it is for tags suh as omegaverse, generally speaking. But the example given in the conference is equally a problem on AO3 because, at this time, the guidelines make a point of not fusing any identity-related concepts as one.

Tags containing lesbians, wlw, sapphic or f/f will usually all be canonised separately. If you search works tagged "lesbians" you will not see works tagged "intimate female friendship".

There is a complex balance to be maintained between making the search and filter system more usable by gathering essentially identical tags into one, and being mindful of the nuances that do matter to a number of people. In this case, it would be useful to gather those similar concept into a searchable unique tag, in my opinion. But a lot of people do care that being a lesbian and being a woman into women/having a relationship with a woman are different things and will be upset and hurt if those get merged.

Personally, I do wish those kind of tags were gathered into one because I think it would be more efficient and people would still be able to sort through the fic gathered there more specifically manually depending on the exact wording of tags. But not everyone feels like that, which is entirely valid, and those who don't will no doubt let us know that if we do it.

That's a way in which maybe the Library of Congress has better chances of making this works for identity tags than we do. I doubt the people who wrote the intimate female friendship papers in the 50s will call support to complain about their work being shown under the lesbianism category, same for the people searching in the library. But AO3 users will, and this is not a criticism, this is the nature of working in an archive with people's personal intimate works and that is heavily used by marginalised people seeking specific representation.

In a similar taste, at this time it is more or less impossible to filter for disabled characters on AO3 because most disabilities are not sutagged to the disability tag under the argument that not everyone agrees what is a disability or not, and that something that may be a disability in our world may not be a disability within the work it's tagged in. (see: Sasuke being an amputee in Boruto but never canonically having a single accessibility or disability-like issue from it) As a disabled user, I wish this was made differently, and I believe that making disabled characters more searchable even if it might include things that not everyone agrees fit there, for various reasons, would be a positive change. But ultimately, the line between what concepts are unanimously similar enough to be gathered and what concepts should be considered separate is very subjective and murky. There's no way to do that Right and it's all a matter of gauging what is the priority for users in one direction or another.

All this is not to undermine OP's point: AO3's tagging system is really good and interesting, and most archives do not have a remotely as complex and efficient way to do it. It's a work I am super happy and proud to be part of.

But I think the identity issues in tagging are an interesting question that I wasn't too much aware of before becoming a wrangler myself, and that users could use to know more about! If only because it makes them able to express preferences, which in turns makes us able to shape the wrangling according to a more accurate vision of what users' priorities are. (With the caveat that wrangling is a machine with a lot of inertia and that changing the way we do things and update older tags accordingly will usually be a long process.)

Anyways. Yay AO3 and be nice to ppl working at support when you have an opinion or request to share (but do feel free to share it!)

at a conference I attended recently, a researcher pointed to the difficulty of finding material in archives because so much depends on the metadata and the terminology used to describe things changes over time. "it would be so helpful," the researcher said, "if I typed 'lesbian' into the library of congress database, it would also show me results that were categorised in the 50s, when the materials were interpreted as 'intimate female friendships'"

which is what tag wrangles at Archive Of Our Own do incredibly effectively: searching for "omegaverse" also leads to "alpha/beta/omega dynamics" and "alternate universe: a/b/o" and so on. but ao3 achieves this frankly incredible categorisation and indexing system by the power of countless volunteers putting in hours and hours of unpaid and unthanked free time, and it's completely understandable that most archives do not have that kind of infrastructure, but also how incredible that a fan-run website has better searchability, classification, and accessibility than the library of congress

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carlyraejepsans · 2 days ago

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The 'their both as bad as each other! Neither of them are good parents' shit pisses me off so bad. At least one of them is idk ACTUALLY BEING A PARENT??? miss me with that 'oh toriel hasnt noticed anything wrong with kris' bullshit when if you talk to people around town the biggest thing that comes up is how she IS worried about them and talks about them constantly. You can miss pretty much all of asgores scenes by just. Not triggering them. The only one you cant miss to my memory is the one in chapter 4 and people expect me to belive that HES somehow noticed somethings wrong with kris???? The man who's introduction in chapter 1 Is him forgetting kris doesn't like hugs???? If you play the game a certain way kris could go a half a week without seeing him! But noooo toriel not being attentive and caring for one scene and being downplaying in a few other scenes means she's just as bad as him!

-side note I really don't like the language people are using with her. People are way to excited to have an excuse to call her a drunk. Like yall let's stop some of the addiction=bad person language yall are using-

no literally speak your shit, the more people try to convince me they're doing ~nuance~ the more of a cunt i become. if people gave a shit about nuance they'd know that this was something toriel needed as a person, someone new to be friends with who didn't behave insanely, a chance to have fun and let loose, but at the same time it inherently put her at odds with what kris needed from her as their mom. which wouldn't be a problem to begin with if toriel had the time and support network to be anything other than their mom 24/7, but guess who's too busy being her stalker to pull his fucking weight!!

#i hope she kills him in chapter 5 I just dgaf anymore #answered asks #deltarune #dr spoilers

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chillinwithbyler · 17 hours ago

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Something that I truly believe the GA just won't understand is how much Stranger Things can actually teach you.

Like, we have a plethora of diverse characters and no two people are the same.

Will is a sensitive person, more so than ANY other character in the show. He cries, he likes to paint, and he loves EVERYONE even when they've hurt him. He's one of the characters who bears a lot of trauma, but he doesn't let it shape who he is. Will is DIAGNOSED with PTSD. God forbid he lets himself cry. He never gets angry at people because of what happened to him, and he always dismisses it if he's going through something. And his biggest problem is Mike 'We're friends. We're friends!' Wheeler.

Joyce is a baddie. She doesn't need no man on her shoulder to be a good mother. When Will went missing, she fought tooth and nail to bring him home even when EVERYONE, even her eldest son, was calling her crazy. She's a leader and she's a character who has so much willpower and doesn't let anything stand in her way.

At first glance, Jim is a fucking asshole. I didn't like him when the series was just starting out. But that's what makes it so good, because he wasn't an asshole for no reason. He lost his KID. And he was given a second chance with El. He can do it better this time and he's going to be there for her as long as he can help it. In season five, I'll expect them to be a separate team from the others. Which is what she deserves. She doesn't need to be with Mike to be an amazing character.

Nancy, Joyce, Robin, and Max are all GREAT examples of women who can lead without some MAN telling them what to do. El can be the same. What she needs is the chance to be independent and learn about herself. Mike can't give her that. She needs to figure that out for herself.

Billy was an asshole. Through and through. There was no excuse for him to be racist towards Lucas, even if he had a bad childhood. Just look at what Will went through, and he's still a fucking angel, so Billy literally has no excuse.

The amount of feminism that Nancy projects is INSANE. She doesn't listen to anybody and when she has an idea she GOES FOR IT. When something bad happens? SHE GRABS A GUN. When someone says she should do something this specific way, it's BULLSHIT and she does it her own way. When the kids are in danger, she puts herself directly in the path of danger.

Mike is one of the most complex characters in the show. He's a natural born leader and goes out of his way to save people. When he first met El, he didn't save her out of LOVE. He did it because he's a protector. Originally, he was going to send her back to the asylum and only let her stick around because she knew where WILL was. And that's what was important. Will. He was hellbent on finding him. In season five, I can GUARANTEE he won't be leaving Will's side. And the only time they'll be separated will probably be because Will is off his rocker this season and too busy fighting internal demons and disappearing all the time.

Because he's been reminded of what's important. And it's not El. She can protect herself. But we know Will can be vulnerable. He doesn't believe he's loved, and that's a good opportunity for Vecna to go after him. Only when he truly starts believing that he is loved will he find the courage to come into his own.

We have so many characters all with different backgrounds. We have mental health, domestic abuse, sexual assault, eating disorders, bullying, homophobia, anger issues, neglect, internalized homophobia, racism, and literal DEMONS FROM HELL.

But you're telling me the GA can't grasp something as simple as two boys falling in love? How emotionally dense do you have to be to be so ignorant?

If you're going to DNF the show just because of Byler, then I'm sorry but you smell like hotdog water and you've missed the entire point of the show. This is about not fitting in. Instead of the protagonists being some..chiseled jocks who are heroric and attractive, we instead have four weirdo nerds obsessed with a game. Four people who are smart as fuck and have been cast out from society and bullied for being different. Especially Will.

And the whole show centers around him. BECAUSE he's different. Growing up and feeling like you don't belong is one of the most difficult things I've ever had to go through. And as a fan of the show since the EARLY days of season one, I can't even begin to describe the happiness I feel when I see Will Byers.

He was not made for you. Will Byers belongs to the people who grew up as a misfit. He belongs to us who feel like mistakes in our own bodies and struggle keeping up with social norms.

Will Byers belongs to US. Not you.

If you have a problem with him because of Noah then I assume you're either a 12 year old who has spent too much time on a screen and not enough time touching grass or you're a 47 year old bald man who doesn't know what common courtesy is.

If you hate on Will just because he's gay then I'm sorry but Stranger Things is not the show for you. Try Riverdale instead. We do not want you here.

Stranger Things is not afraid to put homophobes and racists in their place. Troy pissed himself and suffered a broken arm. Steve got his face ruined and got a redemption arc. Billy literally fucking died. And they aren't afraid to put queers on a pedestal either. To make THEM the important characters. Instead of being sidelined, it's often the queers and the nerds and the people who don't fit in who are given the important roles.

And that's what Stranger Things is all about.

Like it or not, Will is an important character. He deserves this time in the spotlight. When Byler is canon in season five, don't say we didn't warn you. We've been trying to open your eyes since season two.

Byler is the perfect representation of what a HEALTHY and ROMANTIC relationship looks like. Two people are so alike and are quite literally color coded through the whole series and are just so painfully gay for each other it HURTS.

Mil*ven is the perfect representation of what an UNHEALTHY and TOXIC relationship looks like. It's full of arguments, no heart to hearts, NO mutual respect, gaslighting, lying, and literally just zero chemistry.

Over and out.

#byler #will byers #mike wheeler #byler is real #the ga can suck rocks #byler is canon #byler brainrot #byler nation

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ficsilike-reblogged · 2 days ago

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Shelter - 10 (End)

Summary: You saved Soap's life. And everything comes to an end. And something else begins.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No Y/N)

Warnings For This Chapter: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, my attempt at accents, female receiving oral, unprotected p-in-v sex, some light stalking, Soft!Simon

A/N: We've reached the end, my dears! Thank you so much for coming along on this ride with me. I appreciate each and every comment and reblog! I hope you like this last chapter!

Previous Chapter

Life had been strange lately. Quiet. But, comparing it to the weeks spent in safehouses and in hiding was probably a little unfair. But days continued to trickle on. The packet Laswell had left you with informed you of a job waiting for you once you left the hospital. And she probably thought she was being hilarious when you actually were a consultant for museums now. It was mostly through video calls but you did get flown out, every once in a while, to give a more hands-on approach to the problems that arose in their various archives. You weren’t entirely sure who they bribed or what they did to your resume to get you this job, but you weren’t mad. The pay was better. There was no creepy boss cornering you in the dark of the archives. After your broken leg healed and you got the stitches taken out from your second gunshot wound, you also got to travel.

You said you wanted to do more of that, didn’t you? You’d said that if you survived everything at the hotel, you would actually try to live your life. You’d been to several different countries now and had slowly started checking off the long list of things you wanted to see or do from your bucket list. It was good. Right?

But there was still an ache biting at your marrow when you stared at the ceiling of your bedroom.

It didn’t matter that it had been nearly six months since you woke up in the hospital room with Laswell once again by your bedside and you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Simon. You knew it was probably fruitless. Useless. He had left without a goodbye and you lived in a different country. What were you expecting? Some grand gesture and a promise to see you again?

Ridiculous.

You would have been happy with just a simple email address or a postcard you couldn’t reply to. Something.

But you should’ve known better. Didn’t you know that you couldn’t hold onto anything?

Oh. But you had wanted to. You had wanted to hold onto him, and have him hold onto you.

You pushed the thought aside as Pauline shifted in her little carrier, strapped to your chest. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her downy hair. She babbled something nonsensical but gave you a gummy smile, big, bright eyes looking up at you for a moment before she found contentment in just tugging at the soft material of your shirt. She was growing more each day. You weren’t sure if you could love her more, but every day you were proven wrong.

It had been a wonderful reprieve when Kirby had accepted your invitation to meet in Manchester for a long weekend. She was still on maternity leave and Pauline had apparently been the darling of the business class section of her flight. It was good to see them again, even if it had only been a few months since you’d seen them last, in the maternity wing. Kirby was still settling beautifully into motherhood and had cried when she took a picture of you the first time Pauline fell asleep in her carrier, buried against your chest. Your sister was still in the dark about what you had truly gone through. The manager had found her and Pauline and had somehow convinced her that you had booked an all-inclusive spa getaway that was tailored toward new mothers…outside the city. Kirby had raved about how “relaxed and rejuvenated” she felt but had asked that you not surprise her on such short notice again. You agreed. Mostly because you didn’t even think postpartum spa getaways were a thing before she had mentioned it.

And it seemed like fate that they were able to come with you here of all places. Manchester. Where Simon was from. And you were standing in Chetham’s Library courtyard, the library you told him you had wanted to see. Or maybe it was the universe finally cutting you some slack.

The tour guide checked her watch and then her clipboard before her lips pulled into a thin line for a moment.

“Is there a problem?” Kirby asked, probably noticing the woman’s displeasure as well.

“The last reservation has not arrived. We will have to start without them.” Her lips thinned again, for just a moment, before putting on a practiced smile. “Let’s get started,” she said, raising her voice a smidge to get the attention of the rest of the small group waiting for the tour to start. She then immediately started into her obviously well-rehearsed speech about the building’s origins and history before eventually leading the group into the library itself.

You happily followed her lead, resisting the urge to immediately ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at everything. The building was dark and beautiful. Dark gates framed several of the library aisles and you tried to crane your neck as inconspicuously as possible to see as much as you could. Along the wall, the books were protected by thin grates and tiny booklets hung on a few shelves, denoting the books authored by women. You were immediately impressed that the small stools that lined the aisles were largely original and still in use! It was fascinating from several different academic standpoints and then you spotted a row of chained books. It was all so fascinating.

The tour guide continued, pointing out this and that, and you were happy to hear all of it. Down another aisle, you spotted a death mask tucked between a few books. Fascinating. And why did it make that ache come roaring back.

Surely you couldn’t be relating that to Simon. What is wrong with you?

“Hey,” Kirby whispered as she stepped to your side. “What happened?”

“Hm?” You responded, dragging your eyes away from the mask to look at her.

Her brow furrowed for a moment, even as she let Pauline wrap her tiny fist around one of her fingers. “You spaced out there for a second.”

“Oh, um, I’m fine. Sorry.”

Kirby frowned but her attention was diverted immediately when Pauline cooed. Wonderful. And you used the reprieve to try to focus more on the actual tour. Like you had intended. You had wanted to come here for so long. You couldn’t let something so ridiculous as unreciprocated feelings get in the way of that.

Just as she was pointing out the alcove in the library’s Reading Room where Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels once worked together, the tourguide’s speech stalled and her lips once again fell into a flat line as she looked at something over your shoulder. “I see the last of our group finally decided to join us. I do hope you still get something out of this tour.” She tutted and then slipped right back into her speech as Kirby stifled a giggle beside you.

The tour continued and you were all shuffled into the next room right as you felt as if someone was staring at you. You brushed the feeling aside; the person was probably looking at Pauline anyway. She was a particularly cute baby. But as the tour continued on, the sensation of knowing someone was staring at you didn’t cease and by the time you reached the final room, you chanced a look over your shoulder.

There was the older couple in their matching cardigans, a small group of bespectacled academic types all furiously scribbling into notebooks, and the younger family who looked a little tired but happy for the cool air of the building. You’d seen all of them at the start of the tour and then…

A huge figure now stood at the back. Black hoodie with the hood up. Black surgical mask. And brown eyes that immediately drew you in.

Simon.

Simon was here.

You hadn’t realized you had stopped breathing until someone accidentally knocked their foot into yours as they shuffled in beside you, following the tour guide and it punched out of you as you whipped your head back around. You couldn’t stumble. Not now. You squinted against the sun as you stepped back outside and tried to breathe normally. But apparently that was more of a herculean task than you anticipated because your entire chest ached for the next handful.

The tour ended without much fanfare but you might not have heard anything the guide had said for the last five minutes. You still tipped her with a polite smile and tried not to look back at Simon.

You needed to speak to him. Say…something. Maybe one of the million speeches you had thought up in the middle of the night when you remembered what it felt to be held by him.

“Ready?” Kirby asked as you rejoined her as she waited for you near the courtyard's entrance. “Our dinner reservation is in, like, twenty minutes I think.”

It was. And you needed to leave soon so you wouldn’t have to hurry to make it. But you still turned to try to spot Simon again. And he was gone.

Again.

It took a concentrated effort for you to not scream as soon as you were alone in your hotel room that night. What did he think he was doing? Making sure you hadn’t accidentally killed yourself after all their hard work keeping you alive? One last look to make sure you knew he simply could? And it made you even crazier when you knew he wasn’t cruel like that with you. And Simon certainly wasn’t the type of man to do something without cause.

So what was he trying to do?

You saw him outside when you, Kirby, and Pauline took up a corner booth in a small cafe the next morning. He was on the other side of the street as you took a picture of Kirby and Pauline at the park the day after. And then again through the glass of a center display at one of the museums just a few hours later. But when you tried to hurry around it to talk to him, he was gone. Again.

Maybe you were going insane. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Either way, you tried to push thoughts of your dark haired almost-stalker away and focused on having fun with your family. And it was so nice to see them, to be able to dote on them and discover this city together. But, you weren’t sure if you were relieved or sad when you didn’t spot him in the crowd when you traveled with Kirby and Pauline to see them off at the airport. You were able to squeeze them each an extra time before making sure they go through the security line without too much hassle.

You still had another week left in the city, helping another museum recover after an incident in their archives. Another week with Simon lurking in the shadows. What was the worst that could happen? (Don’t answer that.)

Maybe you should’ve been surprised to see Simon sitting on the edge of your bed when you got back from the airport. His posture was rigid, but you weren’t sure if it was because he had been waiting a long time or if he hadn’t been expecting you to walk in. One of his cloth masks was folded on your bedside table.

“Hi.” For just a moment, you thought you might go to him, wrap him in your arms and just let his big, warm body press against yours again. Or smack him. But you did neither, out of cowardice or something else, you weren’t sure.

He didn’t say anything but you didn’t think he would. Instead, his dark eyes tracked you as you shut the door and locked it behind you and then walked further into the room.

“I guess I shouldn’t even wonder how you got in. Probably wouldn’t tell me anyway, right?”

His dark eyes simply continued to follow your movements as you set your purse down on the small recliner tucked into the corner and kicked off your shoes. This was decidedly not how you thought seeing Simon again would go. You might have imagined it dozens of different ways and you might have hoped that the blocked number that called you a couple times a few months ago had been Simon on the other end. But whenever you had said hello, the person had hung up. It had probably been a wrong number, but it had been a nice thought that kept you from spiralling a time or two.

But now his silence was deafening. And grating on your already frayed nerves. He hadn’t even said anything and your stomach was in knots, blood running hot. You could smell his cologne, feel his eyes on you, even when you turned around, pretending to fiddle with something on your shirt. As you picked at a loose thread, you pushed out a slow breath, lungs burning. “Are you going to say anything? Or do you just want to listen to me prattle on like an idiot?” You winced as soon as the question left your mouth. That had been unkind.

He was quiet for a stretch longer and then…“I’ve always liked ‘earing you talk.”

This damn man. You abandoned your thread and turned to him, hoping you didn’t look as pathetic as you felt. “You…you just left.”

To his credit, Simon didn’t deny it. “‘s protocol. Orders came from ‘igher up.”

You nodded, your head feeling more like a ball on a stick. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t…” The words dried on your tongue and you hated how desperate you must sound to him. “Why you couldn’t let me know? If you were okay? If…if you wanted to see me again?” The last word cracked on your tongue and embarrassment burned at the back of your throat.

And then Simon was quiet again. And you almost hated his quiet then. But you couldn’t…not really. Because that was part of who Simon was.

“Didn’t know if ya wanted to see me.”

“Of course I wanted to see you, Simon. I…” Again, the words stalled. But you tried to find the courage you had tapped into all those months ago, huddled behind a bomb or throwing yourself down stairs. “I-I wanted all of you. I know it wasn’t a long time but I really…” You needed to pick your words carefully. It had been over six months since you'd seen him last. You might feel the same about him as you did then, but that didn’t mean anything was reciprocated. “I really care about you.”

He was quiet again. He then stood and closed the distance between you, holding one of your hands between both of his. The roughened pads of his scarred and calloused fingers against your skin nearly had you shaking before your next breath pushed past your lips. “I care about you, too, sweet’eart. Gotta know that.” He was still, unmoving, in that way only Simon seemed to be. But god, you wished he would do something. Say something more. You sighed as one of his hands moved to cup your cheek, thumb pressing against the half moon beneath your eye with a tenderness that had tears starting to burn the backs of your eyes. “Bein’ with me is dangerous. I told ya about my family. What ‘appened to them.”

He did. And your heart still ached for him as you reached up with your other hand to keep his hold on your face. You didn’t want him to let go. Not now. Not after so many nights of not feeling him at all. “I told you about my past, too. Does that change how you feel about me?”

He shook his head. “But-”

“Shouldn’t I get the choice, too? Or am I just supposed to be okay with knowing y-you care for me, too, and we don’t get to be together? Not even try? Is that what you want?” You knew the self-loathing he must carry from that. You knew it well. While yours might carry a little less brutality, you still shouldered it the same. “You protected me against Makarov and his men, over and over again-”

“You held your own.”

“I am safe with you,” you continued on, ignoring the small flare of pride his comment created. “I know I am.”

But Simon was still again. “I’m not a good man.”

“You’re good to me.” The words were spilling out of you before you could even think of how desperate you must sound. But they were out now. You could not pull them back between your teeth. “You’re good to me,” you repeated, a little quieter.

“I want to be good t’you. Gotta know that, yeah?” His thumb traced across your cheekbone, careful and soft.

“Simon.” You pressed a little firmer against his hand and made sure to tangle your fingers with his with your other hand. It was greedy, you knew, but you couldn’t help it. Not now. “You are.” But when he didn’t say anything else, your heart broke the smallest bit, a chip off the side. “But I won’t beg you. I-I know better than to do that.”

And his shoulders rolled, like he was trying to brace for something and he slowly pulled his hands away, leaving you cold. “I’m gone all the time. I can’t give ya something normal-”

“I never said I wanted normal,” you retorted. “I want you. And I’m going to be gone all the time, too.” Another beat. Another stretch of silence that had your heart trying not to break or hope. “But if you don’t want to try-”

“I never said that. You… I said I care about you.”

“Then try! Try with me. Try. I’m not asking for forever but-”

“And what if I want forever?”

Your heart hiccuped and it almost hurt. Ached. “Simon…” It was all you could think to say. “Please.”

And then he moved. His hand slid up, grasped at your face and yanked you forward. His mouth was on yours. Your eyes shuttered immediately and you surged to meet him, hope sweet on your tongue. He dominated all of your senses before your heart could take its next beat. Everything was Simon Simon Simon. And he so easily coaxed your mouth open to let him plunder and take.

“You with me?” His voice was a low rumble as he pulled back the smallest distance.

Your blood was roaring in your ears, singing in your veins. “With you.”

That was all Simon needed. One hand anchored at the back of your head, the other gripping the underside of your jaw, holding you still as he stole your breath from your lungs and licked between your teeth. A stuttered moan shook itself loose in your throat and Simon’s grip tightened just a fraction before your back pressed against the wall. You hadn’t realized he was moving you backward at all.

“Pretty thing,” he grunted against your kiss-warm lips. “You gonna let me feel ya, yeah?”

You just nodded, eyes still tightly closed even as he mouthed across the arc of your cheek down your neck to nip at your pulse, undoubtedly feeling it jump under the blunt edge of his teeth. God, you wanted him. You wanted all of him. Everything he could give you. And right now, you needed his jeans off.

Your fingers blindly reached out, as Simon once again claimed your mouth, scarred lips prying yours open with a tender, vicious ease. The button on his jeans had you fumbling only once before you undid it, and the zipper soon followed. He let out a low hiss as your fingers slid inside, wrapping as best as they could around his cloth-covered cock. It was thick and near scalding against your palm and you earned a sharp thrust and a cruel grunt, torn from Simon’s throat. You could have delighted in this tiny crack in his usually unaffected shield, but all you did was whine as his hands slipped away for just a moment. They were quick to grasp more greedy handfuls of your hips and waist, dragging your lower body just close enough to his to feel the hot weight of him straining against the fabric of his boxers.

“You feel tha’?” His voice was curling smoke in your ears as thick fingers slid across the hot strip of skin just below your belly button.

Your body jerked, chasing his touch. It was all the answer you could give and Simon seemed to know that, smiling against your throat.

You don’t remember losing your jeans. Or your shirt. But his teeth sinking into the softness of your breast just above the edge of your bra had your eyes snapping open. “Si-Simon!”

“There’s my girl. There she is.” And then his teeth sunk into the other. A matching mark.

You swatted at his shoulder with a smile as he looked at you, dark eyes alight with a quiet laugh of his own. The simple look curled heady smoke in your stomach.

You tugged the well-worn hoodie he wore up up up and he let you. Simon lifted his arms to help you yank it off of him and you marveled at everything revealed. Warm skin. Old, angry scars. Hard muscle beneath a soft layer. The rest of his tattoos, both dark and faded alike. Tried and true imagery of bombs and barbed wire, guns, skulls twisted their way up his arm and down one side of his chest. You tried to take it all in as quickly as you could and he kicked off his boots, but your heart still clenched when you saw the large scar he had, stretching from navel to the middle of his sternum. And maybe it was the heat of the moment, some synapses firing off kilter, but you leaned forward to brush a kiss against the top edge of the gnarled skin.

The large man stalled for a moment before his fingers brushed softly against your cheek, beckoning you to look up at him. And you did. The weight of his soft gaze had your already-thrumming heart leaping. But it was quickly quashed when he grasped at your hips and tossed you onto the bed. Simon crawled above you, rough fabric of his jeans stung at your warm skin before he quickly tugged them off, his mouth sealed over yours.

And then he moved down. Deft fingers removed your bra and tossed it over his shoulder to join the rest of your clothes. His lips brushed against the scar on your shoulder before dragging down to press against the newest addition at your side. Another scar. Another kiss. The rough warmth of his hand over the leg that had been broken had you shivering.

“Fuckin’ beautiful.”

He dragged your underwear down as he mouthed at the arc of your hip, one and then the other. An answering, almost embarrassing, mewl slipped by your lips as your fingers curled into his short, blond hair. He was barely touching you.

He huffed a sharp, short laugh before his hands curled over your thighs, grasping at the warm skin before hauling both of them over his shoulders. And then his mouth was on you. There was nothing shy about it. Not that Simon was shy in anything he did. He was ravenous, licking and sucking and stroking, building building building a heat in depths of your core until you choked out a wail as almost every nerve sparked and fizzled beneath your skin.

Simon did not cease his attentions on your slick folds until you tugged gently on his hair with a whine. “Don’t be mean,” you joked. Your body gave an involuntary jerk as he gave your clit a parting suck. You glanced down to see his dark eyes staring back at you, face still half hidden in the cradle of your thighs. His grip tightened as he sponged a kiss to each thigh before rising, stretching his body above yours.

And…oh.

Thick and long. Oh God. Just the scalding weight of him against your thigh was enough to stall your next breath. And Simon just laughed, short and sharp, when you tried to drag him up toward your face. You needed to feel the weight of him on your tongue, knowing you wouldn’t be able to swallow all of him down. But you needed to try. After all, it was fair, wasn’t it?

But he was immovable. He tugged on your hands and then pressed them down into the pillow beside your head, looking over you like some sort of scarred marble statue. Beautiful and terrifying. “Stay there.”

“But-”

His next kiss, tart and sticky, halted any sort of protest you had, tongue dragging against yours as his fingers found your still leaking core as he reached back. Two fingers plunged in, straight down to his last knuckle, and knocked the wind from your lungs. Heat started to bubble beneath your skin again as he shoved them in again and again, twisting one way and then another, scissoring you open as heady, wet noises filled the air. You could feel your own arousal starting to pool beneath you but you could not care less. Especially not when he suddenly pulled his fingers away and slid further down the bed, thick thighs bracketing yours.

“Think you’re ready for me.” It wasn’t a question and you weren’t about to argue.

He knocked your legs further apart and settled between them. One hand braced against your hip and the other wrapped around his cock, rubbing the tip against your folds, letting you jump and squirm against him as he smirked down at you.

“Mean,” you moaned, the single syllable breaking in your throat without any heat.

“Yeah, sweet’eart. I’m mean to ya.”

The stretch of him burned. And burned and burned until he was fully sheathed inside of you, his chest pressing against yours, stretching your legs wide as he dug his beneath yours on the bed. Your hands scrambled against the hard muscles of his back, feeling them shift and bunch beneath your palms. His lips dragged over your racing pulse as he wrapped his arms beneath your back, pulling you closer as you slowly adjusted to the way he filled you so completely.

And he waited. Not even trying to thrust or move. His strength and resolve was truly something to behold—and maybe you would later when you weren’t sure you could feel him in your throat. But soon your hands stilled on his back and you could press a kiss to his shoulder, feeling the strength of him, steady and waiting. “Fuck me, Simon. Please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The sound of slapping, wet skin filled the air, buoyed by the sound of her whining, chanting his name. Simon had never liked his name more than when he heard her say it like that. He might never like anything more.

She nearly screamed when he reached down to rub at her clit again, liking the way she clenched around him. He wanted to see her come again. Wanted her. In any way she would give him.

Her back arched when he drove deep and Simon gladly took the invitation to mouth at her slick skin, already blooming with his earlier marks. Pleasure rippled down his spine as her nails dug into his shoulders with a gasped, “please, please, please.”

And who was he to deny her anything?

Truthfully, Simon had been close the moment he sank into her wet, tight, heat. But he wouldn’t come before her. His fingers moved faster, hips slamming into hers so all she could say was “Si-Si-Si” as her eyes rolled back into her head.

“C’mon,” he murmured, pressing his lips close to her ear. “Give it t’me. Let me feel ya.”

The vice-like grip she had on his cock tightened even further as she wailed and Simon happily drank it down, letting her whine into his mouth, her breath filling his lungs as he thrust once, twice, three more times before making sure his hips were snug against hers as he finally let himself go. His vision went white just for a moment, his war-torn nerves vibrating as she went slack in his hold.

When he could feel his limbs again, Simon sat back just enough to look at her, not yet ready to pull himself free, even if he could feel the wet pool beneath them growing wider. And she seemed to have the same idea because her arms wound around his shoulders, holding him close in her shaking group. “Just need a moment,” she whispered.

“Take all the time you need,” he answered before rolling them both over so she was draped over his chest. Her surprised laugh warmed something else in his chest as she pressed a quick kiss to his mouth. They settled there, both of them groaning as he finally pulled out.

He watched her chest rise and fall with her heavy breaths, a little pleased with himself to see her so spent. He reached out and trailed his fingers against her cheek, down her neck, between her shoulders, feeling her heart thunder beneath her skin.

She was here. With him.

She brushed a soft kiss against the corner of his lips before retreating to the bathroom for a moment. He watched the bright light of the bathroom blooming behind her made her look like some sort of angel—not that he’d ever say or admit that. He called the front desk and asked for new sheets to be brought up and he had them on the bed by the time she returned and slid beneath the clean sheets, sliding back into his side like she had always known she would fit there.

They spoke for a little longer. He listened as she told him about her life, about the museums she had helped and the cities she’d visited, like he hadn’t kept tabs on her the entire time. Maybe he’d tell her one day. Probably not. She had been safe the entire time. That was all he had wanted. He had been strangely proud when he realized she had stuck to her routine of going to a pilates studio three times a week whenever she was back in Chicago. Maybe he’d have her show a few of the moves he saw her do through the cameras at the studio in person, too.

Yeah, he was a selfish bastard.

But he couldn’t stop. Not now.

She talked a little longer and he reciprocated with what he could. The dog he befriended in the forest a few months ago that Johnny now spoiled daily and had annoyingly named Riley. “In yer honor, LT!” Sure. He felt her smile when he mentioned that Price and the manager had crossed paths again and Price was now a little more protective of his phone. She murmured a happy “oh, that’s so wonderful for him,” when Simon told her that Kyle was recently promoted.

Simon couldn’t remember the last time he was this comfortable talking to someone outside his unit or the 141. There had been brushes with it with her. But now he could feel it sinking into him. That ease and comfort with her. It was almost painful to realize it. But he wouldn’t trade it. Not now. Not after he knew what it was like to have her again, knowing that she wanted him, despite everything. She fought for him, with him, for him. No one else had done that. It twisted at something he wasn’t sure was too soon to say. He wasn’t good at this. Had never wanted to be good at this. But he’d try. For her.

The talking eventually quieted and he listened to her soft breathing. Soft and slow. His breathing matched hers, almost unconsciously.

And she must’ve thought he’d fallen asleep because she was quiet the next time she spoke. “I love you.” It was a whisper, quiet, head still tucked and hidden away on his chest. “Even if you disappear on me again. Even if you think I shouldn’t.” The words vibrated over his ribs, burrowing against the shadows in his heart.

His eyes shut as he let his fingers start to wander up and down the soft skin of her arm. He almost smiled when he felt her stiffen, not realizing he was awake, but he just continued his careful touches. He might want to keep touching her, soft and gentle, like this, forever. “I love you, too, sweet’eart.”

Six months later, there was a ring on your finger and you signed your name with Riley tacked on the end. Johnny had been near beside himself when Simon asked him to stand beside him during the small ceremony where Price pronounced you husband and wife. Kirby stood at your side, Pauline balanced carefully on her hip—the baby had tried to pull the flowers of your bouquet into her mouth several times until Kyle distracted her with a stuffed unicorn he pulled from his pocket…like he was waiting for the chance to give it to her (which, if Kirby’s lovestruck smile was any indication, was a good sign of something else about to change for the better).

You were still sent all over the world for work. Simon was gone often, too. Sometimes with little notice. But he never left without kissing you breathless (usually after leaving you boneless between rumpled sheets). And he always said he’d do everything to come back to the apartment you now shared in Manchester.

You understood why he couldn’t and wouldn’t take a picture of you with him and why his wedding ring was always dangling on his dog tags instead of around his finger. You liked that it was closer to his heart anyway. You liked it even more when Pauline fell asleep on his chest when you visited her and Kirby in Chicago, her little hand tangled in the chain as he snored alongside her.

Sometimes still smelling of gun oil and whatever transport he’d taken to get back to the UK, he’d wake you up, no matter how late or early, and you’d shower together, washing it all off of him before climbing back into bed. The sheets always smelt of your perfume. Simon made sure of that—you’d more than once caught him spraying a bit of it onto the blankets or filling a small bottle of it to take with him when he left.

“Need something from home,” he said, when you’d asked.

When you’d asked why he didn’t take something else, like the tea he drank in the afternoons, he just shook his head. “I said: home.”

You were his home. And he was yours.

A/N: Again, thank you all so much for coming along on this ride with me! I hope you liked it. Please let me know what you think! I'm hoping to have Price/Hotel Manager's side story up soon! Thank you! xx

#Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost Riley x reader #Simon Riley x you #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #Simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #female reader

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joyswonderland1108 · 14 hours ago

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Omg not a SIGHTING!!! call the FBI!!!

LMAO some of you ARMYs — and let me say it louder for the Jikook police in the back — are starting to give “emotionally unavailable 1950s toxic husband who forbids his wife from showing her ankles in public” energy. Like?? Please untighten your corsets. People saw Jikook in NYC. They tweeted about it. TEXT TWEETS. No pictures. No videos. Not a drone shot. Just good old “hey I just passed them!” excitement. AND SOME OF Y’ALL LOST IT.

“Delete this.” “Don’t share this.” “Protect their privacy.” Protect their—??? THEY WERE OUTSIDE. In New York City. Public streets. With other humans. Not on a military base, not in the Bermuda Triangle, not hiding in Yoongi’s underground studio eating shadow soup. Just… OUTSIDE.

And suddenly you act like you’re Joan of Arc being burned at the stake for BTS’s sins. Miss me with the fake morals, please. Why didn’t you cry “don’t share!” BEFORE you found out what exactly was going on? Hmm? Why wait till after you've gotten the tea, then hop on Twitter acting like the Virgin Mary of Privacy Laws? Y’all wanna consume but then pretend you’re too holy to participate. Hypocrisy in 4K.

Someone said “some of y’all Jikookers will out them for a hit tweet.” Girl be serious. Unless they’re caught in 4K making out inside the Vatican during Sunday mass, a SIGHTING on the sidewalk ain’t “outing” them. It’s not that deep. And what’s even funnier is: if Jikook did come out officially, some of y’all would STILL be on Twitter like “pls stop spreading it 🥺 respect their privacy 😔” WHEN THEY THEMSELVES TOLD YOU. It’s giving delulu gatekeeper with control issues.

And believe me — if we’re talking about “outing” (which we’re not, because this ain’t that), it’s not gonna be some random incel on Twitter with 3 followers and a Jungkook pfp who lives 10,000km away. Let’s be serious for one second. If anyone had the material to actually out them, it would’ve already happened. Dispatch, the nosiest gossip overlords in South Korea, literally built their brand on blowing up celeb couples and STILL haven’t touched Jikook. So here we are.

The only people who could ever truly “out” Jikook are:

Jikook themselves,

Jikook via their company,

or Jikook through a coordinated media scoop because the stars aligned and it was part of some galaxy-brained PR move.

A tweet that says “I think I saw them near Central Park” isn’t that. Be serious.

Oh but wait — WHERE were your moral compasses when the members showed up to J-Hope’s concert? That wasn’t officially announced either, but y’all had ZERO problems with pictures and videos of them in the crowd floating around Twitter before they were even showed on the big screen. I didn’t see y’all crying “privacy!!” then. Funny how suddenly public sightings are sacred and must be protected like state secrets… unless it’s convenient for your hype. The hypocrisy is glowing in the dark.

Let’s break it down for the people in the back with bad Wi-Fi:

Leaked schedules / private photos / sasaeng trash? Yes. Bad. Burn it.

“I saw BTS at a Starbucks in Manhattan”? Regular celebrity shit. Normal. Not a felony.

But go ahead. Keep acting like public sightings are national security threats and that anyone sharing them is personally violating the Geneva Convention. Meanwhile you were RT’ing videos of them at Hobi’s concert like CNN breaking news.

Y’all are not morally superior for turning fandom into a toxic power trip. You’re just exhausting. Let people have fun. Let people be excited. Let people BREATHE.

Please. Touch grass. Drink water. Unclench.

#jikook #kookmin #minkook #Jikook sighting #let people be excited #I'm not even talking about clown posts but legit ones #the call is coming from inside the fandom #delulu gatekeeping olympics

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sylusgworl · 9 hours ago

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HOT AMERICANO ft. sylus

notes: alternative universe, implied f!reader, fluff, sylus is a bit of a bully n overbearing, reader works at a coffeeshop, sylus can't flirt for the life of him, so he just uses intimidation and hopes for the best kinda xx

a/n: so, i just kinda wrote this at 3am and idk it made sense when i was typing it, idk if it makes sense now, so uh just leave it or take it *cries*. wc. 974

m.list

your days have been monotonous for a while. wake up, get ready, off to your job, then get back home.

it really put you in a bad mood for some reason.

at 8:30 you'd reach the coffee shop, spend six hours there dealing with grumpy costumers and a low paycheck, then you'd come back home, exhausted, only to repeat the same thing the next day.

you thought you'd never get a break from the stillness, stuck in a never-ending loop, waiting to break the curse.

“hi, what can i get you?” you politely ask the umpteenth costumer, your gaze not even raising from your feet as you wait for them to answer.

“an americano. hot.” a magnetic voice reaches your ears, so captivating you feel compelled to raise your eyes and meet its owner.

the man doesn't look over thirty. his slender finger tap on the table, while his eyes are locked on you. ruby eyes.

you feel so small under his gaze, feeling piecered by thousands of daggers.

the fascinating stranger wears a leather jacket, black, that compliments his fair complexion and silver hair.

“cat got your tongue?” you're suddenly pulled out of your in depth analysis.

your face flushes, as you stagger, muttering a “oh yes. it'll be ready in a bit?”. it sounds like a question, even though it is not supposed to. you want to smack yourself. what a good way to ruin your reputation, caught red handed as you're gawking at a random stranger.

except he's a fine looking stranger. extremely fine.

he hums in response and you excuse yourself, almost sprinting as you quickly shift behind the counter.

you finally put yourself to work, except you now feel a pair of eyes studying you, watching your every move. you think you're just imagining things. except, when the coffee is ready, as you place the cup in front of him, you meet his indecifrable gaze.

“here,” you mutter and almost shove it against him. his eyes hide a hint of amusement, although you can't tell much by his illegible countenance.

you turn around, ready to leave, when he calls out to you, “you got me the wrong order, sweetie.”

you don't like how the pet name makes you feel, at all. you inhale, exhale, then plaster a smile on your face, “let me see, you asked for a hot americano?”

“yes i did. i don't think an americano has any milk, does it?”

you freeze. your eyes meet his, then slowly glide down at the cup. latte art is the first thing you notice. oh no.

with a mortified expression, a chain of apologies leaves your mouth, as you try to take the cup awa from the table. what a day.

“leave it as is. when do you finish work?”

“in thirty minutes,” your answer is involuntarily instant.

“i'll drink this,” he points at the cup, his hard features now molded into an entertained expression. you notice the corner of his mouth is slightly raised upwards.

“but in exchange, you have to meet me as soon as your shift ends,” his tone is beguiling, is invitation even more. but you don't understand the reason for it.

“it's not a problem for me to remake your drink, sir. it'll be on the house,” you try to wiggle your way out.

but the bemused look doesn't leave his face, as he pushes his upper body forward, reading your name tag.

“miss [last name], looked inappropriately at a customer, mixing up his order and wasting his time,” he says, his tone stern, not loud nor quiet.

heat spreads out on your cheeks, as you bite your lip nervously, doing your best to avoid his eyes.

“alright,” you say. you're too tired to even ask for the reason why he wants to meet you. maybe he wants to beat you up, then quietly dispose of your body. he does have the look of a gangster.

probably, he'll even call his sidekicks to do the job. you chase that though away, biting your inner cheek.

either way, you're not too upset about your supposed approaching death.

“good girl,” your heart makes a leap. you nod and run off, hoping and praying he hasn't noticed your reaction.

you hope time freezes.

except what feels like an eternity finally comes to an end, and you find yourself out of the coffeeshop door.

he's leaning against a car, one that you couldn't buy even if you saved up all your paychecks for ten years.

you nervously approach him, feeling out of place.

“you’re here,” he walks towards you, until only a few inches separate you two.

you look up to meet his eyes, before involuntarily stepping backwards.

“i don’t bite, kitten,” he says, lowering his head to meet your height.

“so,” you clear your voice, “may i know what you need me for?” you ask him, averting your gaze. you don’t care if you sound too brusque, you can’t wait for things to get done quickly.

a chuckle leaves his lips. “oh, you’re decisive. i like it,” he says, the last words almost whispered to the wind, as he takes a small paper from his pocket and scribbles something on top of it with a pen.

“here, take it,” and you grab it right away, almost enchanted.

“i don’t think we can do anything today, i hope next time you won’t be trembling as much as today, i prefer it when you’re fierce, kitten.” he turns around, “oh, and i’ll be waiting for a message,” he finishes.

time doesn’t allow you to find words of rebuttal.

he turns around before you can formulate an answer and drives away, leaving you and your piece of paper.

your eyes slowly look at it, heart thumping fast, and still refusing to believe the last interaction was real.

04 xxxx xxxx

— sylus qin

he left you his number.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 days ago

Text

Running To You 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, control, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Sister series to Just What I Needed

Summary: You’re rescued by a man who you don’t even know is a real hero.

Characters: nomad Steve Rogers

Note: a stressed out steve rogers plus a cutie. it bloomed from the theory of Steve’s beard being a symbol of his darker side, or a darker state of mind. In the wat that he would usually pride himself on a neat appearance but lets himself go a bit when he’s not at his best.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The door hits the frame, waking you from a fraught slumber painted with dreams of sludgy shadows. You sit up and the cot rocks slightly, knocking on the wall as you steady it. Your heart races before you recognise Steve and the night before comes flooding in. The smell of jasmine is still overwhelming.

Steve sighs and jiggles the handle. He keeps trying to make the door stick. You rub your eyes as you turn your legs over the edge of the cot.

"Is it broken?" You ask.

"Looks like. Didn't even notice last night," he lets it go and faces you. "With everything else... good thing I stayed."

"Um, yeah. Thanks," you scratch your shoulder. "Sorry you had to sleep on the floor."

"No problem. Like I said, could be worse. You could be seriously hurt."

"Uh, I guess," you stand up. Your shorts stick and you tug the legs free from between your thighs. You should put on real clothes. "I'll call the landlord."

"You said it took him a while before to fix it." He tuts.

"Sure but, this is worse, I'm sure he'll come right away," you shrug. "You've done enough. Really. I feel bad."

His eyes wander around and his forehead creases. "I can fix the door. I'd rather make sure it's done."

"Steve--"

"It's easy. Won't take much."

"Well, er, Steve, I appreciate that but I have some stuff to do."

"Oh yeah? I can help," he offers.

You sigh. "No, you shouldn't. I-- I already feel awful waking you up--"

"You'd feel worse if you didn't," he insists. He grips his hips as he stares you down. "I still mean what I said last night. This place isn't safe for you."

"There's people worse off."

"I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about you."

You shrug. He's impossible to argue with but you know he means well. You appreciate that he worries yet you feel bad for the same thing.

"I gotta take these packages down to the post office." You change the subject.

"Great, I'll go with you," he says.

You look at him. "If you want. I'll get dressed."

"Mind if I try to freshen up in the bathroom?" He asks.

"Erm, sure."

You open the small set of drawers next to your cot. You take out a pair of denim capris and a square neck tee. The bathroom door clicks and you check to make sure he's gone. You quickly change then look around.

Your phone. Last night, you never went to find it. It fell out in the hall during your struggle with Mike. You chew your thumb as you look at the door. You're nervous at the thought of seeing him again.

You grab your purse instead and check your wallet. There's that at least. You take out your rolling cart and focus on filling it with the small packages.

Steve emerges. "Your turn."

"Oh, yeah," you smile and cross the apartment. "Thanks."

You flit past him into the bathroom. You wash your face, brush your teeth, moisturize. You tidy your hair and skip the mascara, only smearing on a layer of gloss.

As you come out, Steve stands at the small kitchenette. He shuts the mostly empty cupboard. You cringe.

"You looking for something?" You ask.

"I was going to try to make you breakfast," he turns and leans on the short counter.

"Oh don't worry about that."

"Clearly you're not. There's a can of beans and half a bag of rice in there." He rebukes.

You wince, "Steve, I'm fine. I don't eat breakfast."

"And is that a choice or a necessity?"

You huff and hug yourself. "You're making me feel bad."

"I'm not meaning to. I'm concerned." He once more frames his hips in disapproval.

"It's nice that you care, really. It's just food."

"How much does it cost to do all this? You breaking even on that pine soap?" He wonders.

"I do okay. I keep the lights on," you march to the cart and shoulder your purse. "I have to get this in the mail or I won't get paid."

He sucks his teeth but doesn't argue further. He nears and puts his hand on the cart handle next to yours. "At least let me get this."

"Uh, okay," you crinkle your nose. The smell of jasmine is starting to really bother you. It almost smells like burning plastic.

You go out into the hall. You glance around but don't see our phone. If it wasn't smashed, it was probably snatched. Steve rolls the cart out and turns to the door. He uses one of the mixing sticks you use to jam it shut.

"It will have to do. There a hardware store near here? I'll grab the lock while we're out."

"Sure. On the way back," you say.

He follows you outside. The cart rattles loudly. Your nerves too.

You're embarrassed. He's seen more of your life than anyone has. He just doesn't get it. You'd rather scrape by on your own then go back to before. The idea of another boss breathing down your neck, feeling up your skirt-- No, that's not going to happen.

"You okay?" He asks, startling you out of your gloom.

"Oh, yeah. Thinking."

"About last night? Mike?" He suggests.

"A little. More about the candles I wanna make with the beeswax I ordered." You drone. "Oh, and reusable food wrap."

"Huh," he clucks. "You got a lot of ideas."

"I like making things. It's peaceful."

"Fair. I always enjoyed drawing." He says. "Before... well, it's been a while."

"Really? You draw?"

"Novice at best," he snorts.

"Hey, Rogers, how's it goin', guy?" A man passes by and salutes. Steve offers him a tense smile and his throat bobs.

You look back as the man struts on. That was strange.

"You know him?" You ask.

He shakes his head, "can't remember from where."

"Oh, yeah, that's always awkward."

You continue down the block and make your way to the post office. You hold the door as Steve pulls in the cart. He brings it to the counter and helps you unload the labeled parcels. The employee behind the counter scans them.

"New customs policy, there's an amount owing, miss," the clerk stands at the till. "Two-hundred and seventy three."

"What? I paid online? How can they change?" You squeak.

"I don't make the prices," he shrugs.

"Oh..." you blink. You don't have that much money. You don't even have two dollars and seventy three cents."

"No problem," Steve reaches into his back pocket. "American Express?"

"Yes, sir," the clerk stares at Steve before he points to the swipe machine.

"No, Steve--"

Too late. The machine chirps as his payment goes through. He slides the card away and tucks his wallet into his pocket.

"Receipt?" The clerk asks.

"Sure," Steve waits then takes the slip. "Have a good day."

"You too, Cap."

The reply tugs at your brain. Cap? That's an odd epithet.

You leave the post office, stewing in a new boil of humiliation. He just had to do that. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously.

"Thanks for that. I'll pay you back."

"Oh, you will. And I know exactly how," he declares. "You are going to eat a proper breakfast."

He points across the street to the small diner on the corner.

"No, that's not--"

"That's what I want. Fair trade."

"You must think I'm a real loser," you murmur.

"I don't. I think you're in hard times but a little help isn't a bad thing," he counters. "Besides, I'm trying to show you I'm listening. You want this business to work so I'm making an investment. Because I trust you." He reaches up with his free hand and touches his beard. "And I know you make quality stuff."

🩷

You walk out of the diner with leftovers. Breakfast was much more than you expected and you hate to waste food. Steve drags the cart with no uneaten bounty of his own. A man his size could easily clear at least another plate.

"Thanks, Steve. That was really good," you preen.

"I like the local places. You can tell they use real ingredients."

"Oh, yeah," you agree. If only he knew the amount of ramen you eat...

"Coffee's decent too. That's what really gives it away," he continues on. "Oh, the hardware store, where was that?"

"Not far," you assure him.

You guide him to the small shop with a bunch of plants outside and a spinning rack of seeds. You go inside, single file as the narrow aisles crowd Steve's large figure. He finds the right section and browses intently. He grabs a handle and a deadbolt. You mull the price tags. That's another line in the ledger.

He pays. Again. You don't even try to pretend you can. He's probably already figured you out.

Back on the street, you're hit with the stench of smoke. You scrunch up your face and look at Steve. He lifts his nose.

"Fire," he says.

"Oh... no." Sirens blast by you as a fire truck honks. Traffic honks back, inconvenienced by the emergency. You watch the big red engine turn the corner, toward you building. "Must be close by."

"Must be," he says as you cross the street.

The cart bounces, empty so it jars over each crack. As you come in sight of your building, your heart plummets. The fire engine is right in front of the apartment. The thick grey smoke billows up from the windows, curling around the brick walls.

"No," you gasp and hurry forward. "It can't be."

"Hey, sweetheart, don't get too close," Steve grabs your arm. "Smoke inhalation is dangerous."

"My apartment! My stuff!" You squeal and drop the container, fighting him to no end. He's strong. Inhumanly so. You look at his hand. "Steve, let me go."

"I can't. You'll get hurt."

"I'm not going to go inside. I'm not stupid."

"Let them work. They're the only ones who can do anything," he argues. "You'll just be in the way."

You pout. He's right. That doesn't make this any easier.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he clings to you.

You shake your head and gape up as flames lick outside and furl around the brick. You stagger and press your palms to your cheeks. Even if they do put out the fire, it's too late. After last night, you just can't believe this. Why does everything have to go so wrong?

🩷

"They'll have to keep investigating. That much damage, they can't permit entrance," Steve explains from your vantage.

You stay clear of the other residents, crowded around the firemen and other emergency personnel. They're a hoard, raging at the innocent. You're upset but not angry.

"It's a structural hazard. Same as you need a permit and inspections according to the building code," he continues on. "These things..." he sighs.

You drop your head. You stare at your shoes. You almost laugh. What a waste of time. The profit you make from those packages won't make a dent in surviving this. If you hadn't been so adamant about getting them shipped, you might have been able to save your apartment, or at least a few things.

"I got room. You can crash with me."

"Steve..." you utter.

"Well? Unless you got somewhere else?"

"No," you confess weakly. "I don't."

He's quiet for a moment. "Sorry. I know how that feels and that's not what I meant. But you got me now, doll. Not everything is lost, right?"

"Cap?" A fireman approaches. "Hey, you here about the fire? You hear something?"

Steve's jaw ticks and he looks over tersely at the man in his heavy helmet. "No, I--"

"This isn't some terrorist stuff, is it?" The fireman asks. "I mean, why else they sending you?"

"I was passing by," Steve twitches. "I'm not working right now."

"Ah, gee, I'm sorry. I just figured..." the man looks between you. "Sorry for bothering."

Steve purses his lips and rolls his eyes. He's irritated. You fidget next to him.

"Sorry, about that--" he begins.

"Are you a fireman?"

He shakes his head as his mouth slants. "Not exactly. I... I deal with emergencies though."

"Right..." You think. There's something you're missing and it feels so obvious.

"Mama," a child's voice trickles through. "It's Captain America."

You peek over to a young child points in your direction. You look back at Steve as he rubs the back of his neck. He smiles sheepishly.

"Really, I'm just Steve," he says.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #running to you #mcu #marvel #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #captain america #avengers

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cchrysallis · 2 days ago

Text

You don't understand how terrifying Toby E. Rogers is.

Tim Wright? I've seen him being called Slenderman's right hand more times than I can count. Brian too — always listed as the tactical one, the logical one, the camera in the dark. Both strong. Skilled. Ruthless. But Tobias?

You don't talk about Tobias.

No one ever does.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying part.

Tim is frightening. He's tall, trained, deadly accurate with a firearm. If you're unlucky, he might shoot you in the leg just to watch you crawl and sit there beside your dying body, lighting a cigarette with hands still stained from his last kill, staring at you like you're a problem that refuses to go away. He doesn’t enjoy it. He’s just tired.

Brian? He’ll mock you. Record your cries, laugh at them later. He’ll put a bullet in every inch of you until you’re crawling, desperate, broken. And when he’s done, he’ll casually meet Tim for a drink, chatting about ammo like you weren’t even a person. He doesn’t need a reason. He’s cruel for the sake of it. Detached. Emotionless. He'll shoot every inch of you until you're no longer human — just something twitching on the floor.

But they feel pain. They tire. You can fight them, hurt them, stall them — they can still feel that bullet stinging on their skin, they can still feel blood dripping out from their shoulder, they can still feel your punch on their stomach for hours.

But Tobias?

Tobias is something else entirely.

Toby doesn’t feel pain.

Let me say that again: he doesn’t feel pain.

You can stab him, shoot him, snap bones — he won’t flinch. He won’t stop. You won’t even slow him down. Heat exhaustion doesn’t touch him. Pain doesn’t register. He's wired differently. Completely.

He’s spent years throwing axes. His aim is terrifying — eagle-precise, deadly. You think your weak arms and ragged breath will help you escape him? you’re trembling, you’re gasping, lungs burning, legs cramping, hands slippery with your own blood. And he's still walking — not running — walking after you, laughing, muttering nonsense between vocal tics as the blade in his hand scrapes along the wall behind him.

This man laughs, twitches, and stutters his way through an entire bloodbath without blinking.

You think shooting him will stop him? you think pleading will slow him down? you think crawling to the door will earn his pity?

You’ll only hear: "li-little buh-biitch" — before his axe swings down, smiling down at you, like a hunter who just killed his first prey, his first prize.

And even then, he won't finish you. Not right away. He'll throw an axe into your back, then rip it out slowly. He wants you to feel it. He'll let you crawl a little. He likes the chase.

He'll follow you, limping with purpose, murmuring through his ticks. He’ll scrape his axe along the ground, letting you hear the metal sing behind you. The floor becomes a canvas for the trail of red he leaves behind.

Toby isn't a saint. He's not a sunshine-and-rainbows proxy. He wasn’t born for this — he was twisted into it. He was never meant to be saved. Not when he was forced to become a proxy to survive.

He won’t soften for anyone.

He won’t declaw himself for you.

He won’t stop sharpening his teeth just to make sure he can still tear something apart.

He enjoys watching blood drain from your body. He smiles when you scream. He stares with fascination when you cry — not out of pleasure, but out of curiosity.

Because he’s never felt it. So he wants to see it.

So tell me: if you were Slenderman, and you had to choose between Brian, Tim, or Toby.

Who would you trust to be your hands?

Your eyes?

Your wrath?

....

You already know the answer now.

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maladaptive-daydreamer-23 · 3 days ago

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🕸️Itsy Bitsy Arachnid🕸️

A/N: I am so obsessed with this one to be completely honest, I giggled to myself the whole time I was writing it. It’s so fluffy I could die. As always thank you to my lovely beta readers @cringeiknow and @theghostofcosmichorrorpast I love you guys a ton! I hope you all love this one as much as I do!! Happy reading!

Love,

Mal 🤍

P.S. I’m going to start a taglist for any who are interested! Just send me an ask!

Summary: Aaron and Spencer are spending the day with you at your apartment when you discover an intruder. Calling for their assistance is reflex, second nature. However, when they discover that the “intruder” is of the small, eight legged variety, they can’t help but laugh as they rescue you. It’s a good thing you love them…

Tags: Arachnophobia, polyamory, poly reader, fluff, domestic fluff, suggestive themes, sexual innuendo, dirty jokes (very mild)

Warnings: Spiders (just one), dirty jokes, unspecified polyamorous relationship dynamic. Reader is definitely polyamorous.

Relationships: Hotch x Reader x Spencer

WC: 1.6k

Mal’s Masterlist

AO3 link here

“AARON! SPENCE!”

Your screeching was so loud it could probably be heard all the way down the block. You were sure everyone in the building heard it, and by the way Aaron and Spence came barreling into the kitchen, it must have been blood curdling.

They found you standing on the kitchen table pointing a shaky finger into the corner, under the edge of the cabinets that were under the counter.

“What is it honey?” Aaron asked, crouching to look cautiously under the counter. Wondering if perhaps a snake, or some other little creature had somehow snuck into the fourth story apartment. Whatever it was, it sure had scared the life out of you.

Spencer noted the way your hand shook, how your eyes were the size of quarters, your face so gaunt he feared you might pass out. The thought made him step farther into the room and position himself against the wall, close enough to the table that he could catch you if you fell.

It wasn’t a second later that Aaron spotted the tiny terror that had caused your distress. He couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“What is it?” Spencer asked, curiosity and premature amusement in his tone. He didn’t know what it was, but if Aaron was laughing, he knew it was ridiculous.

“It’s just a spider.” Aaron tossed over his shoulder, straightening to his full height and pinning you with a teasing grin that made your stomach do somersaults. “Really, Sweetheart? Last week you went toe to toe with a serial killer, unarmed and without backup, but you never batted an eye. And an itsy bitsy— what’s the word… not insect-“

“Arachnid.” Spencer supplied, a little too jovially for your liking.

“Thank you.” Aaron responded. “An itsy bitsy arachnid has you cowering on the kitchen table, shaking like a leaf.”

“It sure didn’t look itsy bitsy to me when it crawled over my foot!” You protested, crossing your arms and pouting as you grumbled, “I thought he was a very big spider… huge even.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not even as big as my thumbnail.” Aaron said, only slightly condescending.

“Sure, if you only factor in its body! Add in the legs and it’s easily the size of a half dollar!” You exclaimed, defending yourself a little too ardently. Making them both laugh at you. You pouted a little more, it’s not your fault that you are scared of spiders. You can’t help it.

“Who would have thought Angel could be brought low by a spider?” Spence joked. “Homicidal psychopaths with guns? No problem, she’s got it under control. But an itsy bitsy, teeny weeny, little arachnid, and she’s a trembling mess.”

“It’s kind of cute though, right?” Aaron interjected.

“Oh it’s adorable.” Spencer agreed. “At least we know there’s something she needs us for… besides the obvious.”

They both laughed again and you narrowed your eyes at them.

“If you two don’t shut up and get rid of the spider, I might just start withholding the obvious.” You threatened, and in that moment you were serious, though you knew you’d probably reconsider later…

You’d definitely reconsider.

It was an empty threat, and they both knew it, but they humored you anyway.

“Okay, hold on.” Aaron chuckled and then went to take off his shoe.

“Wait! Don’t kill it!” You protested. “Just because I’m scared of it doesn’t mean it deserves to die!”

Aaron sighed and shook his head at you while grinning.

“Well what do you want me to do with it then?” He asked.

“Put it outside?” You asked sweetly.

He huffed a laugh and shook his head, turning to look for something to catch the spider with.

“You can come down Sweetheart, we won’t let it eat you.” He teased.

You shook your head vehemently.

“Uh uh. No way Aaron. Not until that thing is safely outside in his new home.” You insisted.

He just laughed and Spencer scoffed.

“Angel, I hate to tell you this…” Spence said softly. “But putting him outside is also giving him a death sentence.”

“What!?” You gasped. “How!?”

“Well, in a way that you’ll understand… He’s an inside spider, he doesn’t know how to live outside.” Spencer explains, coming over and resting his hands on your waist as you knelt down in front of him on the table. “If we put him outside, he’ll starve, get eaten, or freeze before he learns how to adapt. That’s if he’s a common house spider, if he’s not he could survive… possibly. But if he didn’t make it, it’d be a slow death, so if you really don’t want him here, it’s better that Hotch just kills him quickly.”

You sighed heavily…

You didn’t want to kill the spider, you just didn’t want him living in your home either. If you put him outside, you’d feel guilty wondering if he made it and knowing that if he didn’t it was your fault.

If you had Aaron kill it, Penelope would consider you a murderer, and you would feel guilty as well.

Aaron and Spencer could see your internal struggle and shared a look, a conversation passing between them silently.

“What kind of spider is it?” Spencer asked Aaron, knowing the answer would help your decision.

If it was a dangerous spider, you wouldn’t feel as guilty about killing it or putting it outside. If it was a harmless–or even helpful spider– you would choose to let it stay. He knew you would. Even though you would still be frightened of it, even though you would walk on eggshells in your own home knowing there was a spider somewhere nearby. You would choose to let it live.

“I haven’t got a clue, but it’s not venomous, I’d recognize one of those.” Hotch replied, stepping aside and gesturing toward the corner the spider was currently residing in.

Spencer kissed you on the tip of the nose, unable to help himself, you were just too cute looking at him with those gorgeous eyes. Then he walked over to the corner and squatted down to look at the spider.

Then–to your utter horror– he let it crawl into his hand.

“Angel, it’s just a little jumping spider. Look at him, he’s adorable!” Spencer said, turning toward you with the spider.

He got a little too close for your taste, and you couldn’t help the fight or flight response that over took your brain and body. You squealed and bailed off the table onto a very shocked Aaron, who did his very best to catch you, until you started climbing him like a tree.

“Christ, Honey! A little warning next time? You could’ve hurt yourself!” He scolded, though you all knew he was all bark and no bite when it came to you, and you could hear the laughter in his voice. “It’s not going to eat you! Spiders don’t like the taste of people, I promise.”

“They prefer flies, crickets and mealworms, among other things. But not people.” Spencer reinforced that theory, though you didn’t really care what they ate as long as it wasn’t you. “They’re actually very friendly! People keep them as pets all the time.”

You—having wrapped your legs around Aaron’s waist while clinging to him like a koala—sighed. Then, giving Spencer the benefit of the doubt, you turned your head and actually looked at the spider in question.

It was cute… in a creepy sort of way, you supposed, and he did look friendly. If that was a thing spiders were capable of? His big eyes seemed almost innocent, and he was very, very fuzzy. Fluffy even. You liked fluffy things.

You groaned.

“His name is Footsie. He lives here now, he can eat all the annoying flies and the occasional irritating cricket.” You grumbled, hoping to seem a little less pathetic and knowing that it didn’t work.

Aaron tipped his head back and laughed, a sound that was becoming more and more familiar to you.

“Footsie? Really?” Spencer asked you, trying his best not to laugh at you as well. (He wasn’t succeeding.)

You nodded decisively.

“He ran over my foot, I think—if his intentions were friendly and not nefarious—that he was playing footsies with me. A dangerous game for a little fella like him… but I digress.” You explained, making them both look at you with a mix of concern and adoration.

Aaron kissed you on the head.

“I love you so much.” He murmured into your hair, and you could feel his smile against your head as he said it.

“I love you too.” You chirped sweetly, tilting your head up for a real kiss. Which you were certain you deserved for allowing the spider–Footsie–to share your home. He chuckled softly and planted a soft, sweet kiss on your lips.

Spencer, took a step forward and you protested.

“Ah ah ah! No kisses for you until you put that thing back where it came from! Or so help me!” You threatened. Very serious about the Spider not coming any closer to you.

He laughed softly, then went and gently placed Footsie back in his corner.

“Not that I’m complaining, I really enjoy having your legs wrapped around me…” Aaron said teasingly. “But can I put you down now?”

You giggled at the innuendo and nodded your head as you slid to the floor.

Then Spencer came back and wrapped you up in his arms, giving you a very passionate kiss.

“I also like having your legs wrapped around me.” He murmured against your lips. “It's the best way to end the day.”

“And start it.” Aaron added, a sly grin on his face.

“Mmm hmm.” Spencer hummed in agreement.

You laughed at their antics and decided, right then and there, that you were the luckiest girl in the world.

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moonybyte · 2 days ago

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It's what someone on Twitter called the "Nazi Bar Problem", only this would be for online spaces. If you oppose bigotry and racism of any kind right away in a very clear and impossible-to-deny way, you never become a safe space for them, and thus they can't become the majority that those companies worry about accidentally losing.

only thing that comes to mind today.

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my-hyperfixation-stories · 2 days ago

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Pain of Caring too Much

Summary: Dean will do anything to save the people he loves from death. He’s proved that time and time again as he puts his own life on the line for his brother, he never imagined that one day he’d have to do the same for you.

Warnings: character death, heavy angst, mentions of drugs(neither reader nor Sam or Dean involved), dead victims, violence and death, strong language used. Happy Ending.. sorta?

A grin finds Dean’s face as the slice of pie slides into his view. He quickly pushed away the paper he was reading and prepared to stuff his face. The second he went to take a bite, your hand covered the appetizing treat. “Ah ah ah.. Pie means I get to tag along on the hunt..” His eyes narrowed as they look up to meet yours. Quickly he picks up the pie and walks away from you while devouring the dessert in front of him.

“No, not this one, this thing has killed too many people, it’s too dangerous. You’re sitting this one out.” His words make you groan in frustration. “When have we ever deemed something ‘too dangerous’? Hell I’ve killed hundreds of ‘dangerous’ creatures over the years Dean.” You try reasoning with him but the words go in one ear and out the other.

He tosses the pie trash into the motel garbage before collecting his things and tossing them onto the bed. “You let me go to those, why not this hunt?” You pester him for more of an explanation but he goes silent. When you glare at him he finally huffs out a quick answer. “I have a weird feeling about this one.”

Your eyebrows shoot up before another scoff leaves your lips. “So what? You’re a psychic now? I thought that was Sam Winchesters whole deal.” Sam’s eyes look between the two of you staying quiet as you argue. “I don’t want you getting yourself hurt trying to keep up with us.” An offended look takes over your face as Sam looks a bit taken aback by Dean’s statement.

Dean stuffs random articles of clothing into his duffle bag not caring how disorganized it is. He was more focused on tuning out your words. “I know how to handle myself Dean.” His eyes roll only fueling your rant. “I have been a hunter for as long as I can remember, you don’t have to bench me because you don’t want me getting hurt.” Dean sighs, halting his movements.

He turns on his heels to face your direction. “No. I know you can handle yourself. The problem is that you’re too damn stubborn. I can’t trust you not to get yourself killed trying to protect someone.” You scoff at his words and snatch his bag from him. This pissed off Dean beyond extent, however his angry words were cut short. “I can’t deal with you dying because you’re trying to play the hero, I can’t.”

“You don’t get to decide how I live my life Dean.. I can decide whether or not I take a case. I’m not some kid you have to protect. I’m a grown woman with my own capabilities, and I’m not letting either of you die! I choose what I do with my life and if that means protecting you and Sam.. then I’d rather be dead than find out one of you died because I wasn’t there to help.” Your eyes locked onto Dean’s. He was debating whether to fight back or reason with you.

His eyes flicker through various emotions, trying to find a comeback before retreating. “Fine. You can go. But I call the shots, if it gets too bad we pull back. If I give the signal, everybody stops everything. I’d rather everyone in this room have a pulse by the end of the night.” Before anyone has the chance to respond, Dean is storming out of the room mumbling incoherent nonsense.

“Your brother gets on my nerves Samuel.” You huff as you fall back onto the motel chair. Everything in your body melts to the chair trying to seek comfort in it. “Mhm.. Well you know he only does it because he cares.” Sam’s words make you let out a long sigh. Your fingers rub deep circles against your temple. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss me off.” Sam chuckles at your slumped figure. His eyes stay on you before shifting to his hands. “He knows you’re good. Hell he thinks you’re one of the best hunters we know.. He just doesn’t want anyone else dying on him.. He lives to protect, he’s been doing it since mom died.” You look over to Sam who seemed to drift into his thoughts.

Your posture shifts so your body faces his. “Well I guess that makes three of us. We all protect each other.” Sam’s eyes move back to yours having a feeling you weren’t done talking. “That’s exactly why I’m not staying behind. Gotta make sure you two boys don’t get yourselves killed while because I’m not there to save your asses.” You send a smile over to Sam who returns the look.

“I care about Dean.. I really do. More than you’d think.. just… sometimes I think he views me as someone who he has to watch over, that if he takes his eyes off of me I’ll mess up.. but I see where he’s coming from.” You add making Sam go quiet, he fully takes in all of your words before responding.

“Dean cares for you more than he can admit. Hell he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon.. Part of him is scared that he’s going to be the reason you get killed. I don’t think he thinks of it as making sure you don’t mess up, more so making sure he can protect you when you need it.” Sam explains making a smile tug at the corner of your lips. You knew his words were truthful. Thinking of Dean trying to protect you, putting everything into making sure you’re okay has your heart beating.. but part of you feels the slight ache in your chest.

“I love him..” The room goes quiet for a moment as Sam’s breathing slightly falters. Caught off guard by the sudden confession. “I think that’s what pisses me off the most.. knowing he acts this way but doesn’t do anything. Trying to hide emotions and not just allowing himself to feel something real, like he’s..” Your voice trails off. Struggling to find the correct words. “Like he’s hiding something?” Sam asks making you shake your head. “No.. like he’s not worthy of having emotions.” Sam gives you a knowing look. One full of understanding.

As he goes to add in suddenly the door comes flying open. “Sammy make sure all your shit is packed up, we’re leaving in ten.” Dean states quickly bringing his little brother to his feet and throwing his bags over his shoulders. The moment Sam walks out Deans eyes find yours.

“I didn’t.. I wasn’t.. I’m not calling you a bad hunter. I don’t want you or Sammy dying on me. Having less people on hunts reduces the risks.” He explains whilst awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “I know.. I’m just glad you said something before the drive or I definitely would’ve been purposely trying to piss you off.” A smile reaches his lips before waving you off. “Go get in the damn car before I really do leave you behind.” A laugh leaves your lips before you’re headed out to the impala. “You never thanked me for the pie!” You call out making his eyes roll. “Letting you come is good enough!”

None of you had any idea of what you were dealing with. Whatever it was, the death toll it was racking up was becoming an issue. The kills mimicked that of a werewolf but the bites resembled vampire fangs. It confused the hell out of each of you, hell even Bobby couldn’t make sense of it. The call you two had earlier ended in nothing but ‘I’m sorries’ and ‘I’ll do my best to find more’.

Dean sat on the motel bed, reading through old journals, while you sat alongside Sammy to scout out online websites for any sort of clues. “Claws like a werewolf, kills like a werewolf, but fang patterns of a vampire.. what the hell are we dealing with..” Sam repeated everything they knew, which was quite frankly very little. His hand ran through his hair as he blinked frantically at the screen in-front of him.

“It could just be a werewolf with an irregular fang pattern.” Sam says only to earn a doubtful look from you. “Nothing about it makes sense. Nothing sources claim to have found anything similar to this.” He moves closer to the screen trying to read closer up.

You notice the way his eyes keep backtracking not able to fully process the words in-front of him. Quietly you slide the computer away from him making him look up confused. “How about you go grab us some food? You look like you need a break from screens and words.” He tried to protest but the look you shot him told him it’d be better just to listen.

“Right.. I think I saw a burger joint a block or so over.” He says as he rises to his feet. Dean tosses him the keys as his eyes stay on the journal. You look up at Sam and give him a smile. “Get me anything that looks good, and get Dean something greasy.” He gives you a small nod before grabbing his jacket and heading out of the room.

Your attention falls back onto the screen trying to dig up any kind of information. The headache that was lurking in the back of your head was sure to make its presence loud and clear later on. Images of mutilated bodies scroll past your screen. All mimicking those of either werewolf attacks or vampire bites, none of which correlated to your victims.

After ten or so minutes the atmosphere shifts behind you before Dean clears his throat. He walks up behind your chair before peering over your shoulder. “Found anything?” He questions making you shake your head. “Nothing at all.. just images of common vamp attacks or werewolves..” Both of you go silent as you scroll through everything. “What about you? Anything in your dad’s old journals?” You glance up at him but only see the shake of his head. His breath lightly grazes your shoulder as the two of you stare at the screen.

Just when you go to speak another image pops up creating bile in the back of your throat. A sound of disgust escapes your lips as the image burns into your eyes. You quickly close the laptop. The image engraved itself into your mind. The way bugs made their home inside of the victims body.. the little boy. The image was close and didn’t leave much to the imagination on how he died. “Damn.. remind me never to have kids.. this shit is awful..”

When you open your eyes you see Dean’s furrowed brows. “What? It was disgusting.. you’d think I’d be desensitized by this point..” He’s quick to shake his head at your words. “No not that.. kids? You had planned on having kids?” He asks making your heart hurt a little. Yes, at some point you dreamed of having kids, but then you’d wake up and be met with the harsh reality of the world. “No.. I mean.. in different circumstances I’d love to settle down with a family of my own.. a man who’d treat me good..” Yours eyes trail Deans figure before looking away. “but never in this lifetime. Not with shit like this lurking the streets.” A sigh escapes your lips as you mess with the nail of your thumb.

“I used to dream of a different world. One with you and Sammy still present.. but in that world everything was happy. We-.. I had children of my own. A husband who did all of the heavy lifting. Hell Sammy even had a family of his own with Jess.. everything was happy. We were happy.. Then I would wake up.. have to watch the two of you kill monsters.. sometimes it was one of you who ended up dead. That’s the moment I decided I’d never have kids of my own. I can’t put their lives at risk like that. Nor give them a life where their mom probably wouldn’t stay alive..”

He watches the way your eyes sadden when they look down at the closed laptop. He knew that feeling all too well. “I used to think about quitting this job when I was younger. Finally escaping to go have a normal life. Normal family really. Now it all seems impossible.” His words make you scoff before turning in your chair to look up at him. A smile threatening to find your lips.

“You? Dean Winchester? Going all soft and having little you’s running around? I’d love to see that image. I haven’t even seen you look at a girl longer than a night.” He fakes a hurtful look. “I can get sentimental, maybe you haven’t seen me at my full potential.” He teases only bringing out your laughter. “Oh your full potential? Oh ok, I’d love to see that. You being all cheesy and loving towards an actual woman.” A satisfied sigh leaves your lips as the laughter dies down.

“Maybe I was just looking for the right girl..” You feel the way his tone shifts. When your eyes look back up at him, his look has shifted. The way he looked at you was different. His eyes softer, like he’s letting his hard mask fall down to show what’s hidden beneath. “Maybe.. she would’ve loved being there for you.. in another life, simpler life I mean.. I bet you would’ve been great Dean.” The soft tone of your voice had Dean’s heart breaking. “Yeah we would’ve.” His eyes linger on yours. Both of your gazes full of love and sadness in what could’ve been.

“You know I only yell at you because I care about you.. I don’t want you leaving. Not anytime soon.” His voice is more serious than before. You give him a small nod. “I know. That’s the same reason I want to be here.. I couldn’t live with myself if either of you died and I wasn’t there to help.. it’d eat me alive.. I’ve never held any of your emotions against you Dean. Sure i’d yell at you but I’d be a hypocrite if I really held it against you.” His eyes flickered between yours. He was looking at you like he’d crumble if he took a breath. Slowly, his body drew closer to yours, hesitantly but certain of what he wanted

The moment shattered when Sam came through the motel door. Dean stumbled away somehow going unnoticed by Sam. “I got a burger for Dean, and a specialized meal for the pickiest eater I know.” He tosses both of you a bag. “Thank you Sammy.” He notices the awkward feeling in the room. “What were you two talking about when I was gone?” Sam asked making Dean awkwardly try to come up with some excuse. “We were talking about life outside of hunting. I was saying that if monsters didn’t exist I would have children of… children..” Your brows suddenly furrow before spinning around and quickly opening the laptop.

“Y/n? What? What is it?” Dean quickly asked but your fingers just type away. You select the search tab and type in Werewolf and Vampire hybrid. Finally an image pops up following the exact description of the murders with various paragraphs of information. “Holy shit..” You whisper to yourself, the two brothers sit in confusion waiting for your explanation. “I didn’t think they could but.. hybrids.. when both Vampires and Werewolves mate giving a mix of the two creatures. I didn’t think it was physically possible.”

Dean joins you in your search for answers while Sam walks out to phone Bobby. “What kills this son of a bitch?” Dean asks leaning in close. His shoulder brushes up against yours, like he’s not afraid of being close to you for once. “I’d assume Silver would be the common denominator..” You scroll a little further before catching the paragraph listing weapons. “Pure silver, knives work to slow them down but bullets and severing the heads are primarily used in killing them.” You look over to Dean with a satisfied smile. The beating of your heart blooms when his eyes catch yours. “I knew you were useful for something.” He jokes only to groan when you punch his shoulder.

You flatten out the top of your suit before climbing out of the impala. You pull the crime scene tape over your head as you step into the horrors that lie within the home. Your eyes scan the foot traffic trying to locate someone with an authoritative look. Finally your eyes catch one of the detectives you had run into earlier on in the case.

“Any witnesses for this one? Or have we struck out this time too?” You question making him rub his forehead before turning to the curb. “Sarah Hopkins.. 18 years old. A real fixer upper if you ask me. Eyes as red as can be. Claims she saw a human figure walk into the home and leave with a blood trail behind only this time with claw. Her words don’t seem that valuable if you ask me, she looks as high as a kite.” He explains. You quickly thank him before making your way over to Sarah.

“Sarah right?” Her head whips to the side before looking up to you. “I uh.. yes that’s me.” She stands up seemingly caught off guard. “Can you tell me what exactly you saw earlier this morning?” You ask making her look around sheepishly. “I saw someone going into the house. I swear I heard growling and screaming but I was too scared to get any closer.. When they left.. that’s when I noticed the blood trail..”

You take down notes of her descriptions. “What were you doing in the area? Alone I mean.” You question as she nervously scratches her arm. “Um.. it’s.. the owner.. Nelson.. I was going to meet up with him but.. I decided not to and that’s when I saw that person.” Her eyes dart around. “Nelson.. who is he to you?” You notice the way her eyes gloss over. The panic in her breathing as she tries to think of an answer.

“Are you and Nelson.. romantically involved?” She looks down before nodding slightly. “He.. am I going to get in trouble? It’s uh.. not necessarily a real relationship.. more so um.” Her breath has grown ragged. “He gives you medication.. ones that help you get rid of all of those difficult feelings?..” a tear falls down her face as she nods. “It’s okay.. I’ll leave that part between us..”

She looked up surprised. “Really? Thank you, thank you so much.. nobodies been nice the entire time I’ve been here, I was scared I was seeing things!” She rambles out before you try calming her down. “It’s alright, I believe every word you’ve given me.. thank you.. here, give me a call if you can think of anything else to tell me or need any help.” You hand her a card with your cell on it before walking back to the impala.

“Nelson Jurrows is our victim, 20 year old drug dealer. Witness is Sarah Hopkins, 18 years old, gets supplied from Nelson. Claims a mysterious figure walked into the house and walked out trailing blood behind. She reported hearing growling noises and screaming inside..” You inform the two. “So what? We thinking drug deal gone bad? This hybrid thing finds him and kills him?” Dean asks making you shrug. “I say we look up more info on him before we trying connecting a motive.” Dean nods before putting baby in drive and heading away from the crime scene.

The three of you were once again researching, this time more focused on connections rather the creature. After spending the entirety of the day researching more victims you finally land on the most recent. “Nelson Jurrows. Held back three times his sophomore year. Pissed off a lot of people in his time there.. says here he got arrested three years back over a domestic dispute. He beat his girlfriend, Sarah Hopkins..” Sam’s words quickly grasp your attention. “Sarah?.. She would’ve been 15 years old.” Sam’s shoots you a sorrowful look before returning to his source. “Seems he has a history with violence..” Sam goes to dig deeper only for your phone to interrupt.

You quickly accept the call, “Hello?” You call out only to hear heavy breathing on the other line before screaming fades in the distance. “Sarah?! Sarah is this you?!” You stand up hearing the frantic action on the other line. “Hello? Is this the agent I talked to?! He’s here!! He’s killing us!” Her voice comes out panicked. You quickly place her on speaker and rush to grab your things. The boys quickly get the memo and grab everything. “Who? Who’s there?!” You question as she cries out.

“Jackson! Nelson’s brother! He killed my friends! He’s hunting us! He let us run around so he can find us! Please don’t let him kill me!” She cries out as wind rushes through the phone, signaling she was running. “Ok just tell me where you are, I’m on my way!” “The woods! It’s right off of Tejas road, right where the abandoned house is!” You go to reply but static hits. “Sarah? Sarah! Dean drive!”

Dean slams on his breaks as you pull up to the house. The three of you file out of the car before taking in your surroundings. It wasn’t the best moment as the moon was the only light illuminating the ground. Perfect conditions for the hybrid to sneak up and get a kill.

You didn’t know how many kids you were dealing with but the sooner you ganked the hybrid, the better chances these kids had at survival. By the way Sarah spoke you could only assume it was a friendly gathering gone wrong. Hell most were probably to shitfaced to realize what was happening. You venture around the house tripping slightly. When you look down you catch a glimpse of one of the kids. Your eyes quickly look away after noticing the hole in their chest.

Your gun is clutched in your left hand as your right clutches the machete. Both prepared to kill the creature stalking you in the night. “Are you that FBi agent?..” A shaky voice calls out before coming out from behind the bins. “Sarah? Hey hey yes it’s me.. My name is Y/n, I’m here it’s ok.” You rush to her. Her body was covered in scratches and blood, some of which didn’t seem to be her own. “Y/n.. He just started to attack everyone.. but not with any weapons.. his teeth.. they were so sharp, his nails were worse.. he tore them apart.. he let me go.. he said something about enjoying the hunt..” She trembled against your touch.

“It’s ok, me and a couple friends are here to make sure he doesn’t hurt you.. ok?” She quickly nods before a crack of branches comes from within the forest. “Stay behind me.. if anything happens, if he tries attacking us I want you to yell as loud as you can. Only and only if he attacks.” A terrified whimper escapes her lips but she ultimately nods. The two of you make your way alongside the house trying to locate either Sam or Dean.

You make sure she stays tucked behind you and closer to the house so you can protect her if you need to. The only way you know she’s behind you still if from the unsteady breaths she takes. “Ok Sarah listen to me.. what we are dealing with isn’t normal.. it’s not human.. take this.” You pull out another gun holstered in your pants and unclick the safety. “If he tries attacking us either shoot or run and yell for help.” Just as you go to hand her the gun her eyes widen drastically.

“Y/n watch out!” Her screams were loud. You barely had time to process them before a searing pain shoots through your back. The gun goes flying deep into the woods. Your body rams into the wooden building before you steady yourself. The next moment you barely had time to raise the machete before his claws reached for your face. The machete caught his hands, the force alone sent the blade into his palms. A fierce growl escapes his throat before he slashes the bloody claw against your arm. You go to swing the weapon only for him to send it flying. You could hear Sarah’s panicked screams. “Sarah run!” You yell out only for the hybrid to turn around. His attention fully shifts to the young girl.

She turns around bolting for the woods. You run over to where the gun was thrown before aiming it for his body. A loud gunshot rings out, hitting him in the shoulder blade. A pained yelp escapes his lips before he turns to you. His eyes full of rage before he’s sprinting at you. Your next shot grazes his neck but it’s not enough to kill him.

What you desperately needed was the machete that was thrown from your grasp. A strangled scream escape your lips as an intense pressure hits your stomach. You feel the way his nails pierce through your skin, clawing its way inside of you. His fingers shift only intensifying the agony. His other hand squeezes your throat making you gasp for air.

“Thought the Winchester’s little play toy was supposed to be strong?” He chuckles drawing closer to your neck. His teeth graze your neck nicking it slightly. A disgusted groan escapes your lips before wincing. “Any last words? Wouldn’t want the last thing your pretty mouth do be screaming for help that’s not coming.” He tilts his head tauntingly. “Go to hell..” He scoffs with a wide grin. “Should’ve chose better.” His hand reached up giving you the opportunity to raise your gun. By the time he noticed his hand had already swiped for your chest. The bullet you shot goes straight through his head.

His body drops leaving your slumped against the house. You gasp for air as your hand reaches up to find just below your throat slit wide open. Blood oozed from both your chest and stomach. The wounds were definitely severe. One of your hands steadied the blood flow on your chest and the other holds your stomach. You couldn’t tell what hurt the most.

“Y/n! Where are you! Y/n!” A voice comes fading in from the distance. “Here.. I’m.. over here..!” You attempt to yell but the pain has your sliding closer to the ground. Just before you fully hit the ground the voice grows louder. “I’m here!” You managed to scream out before pain engulfed you.

Any strength you had in your leg gives out as you hit the ground. Your back was pressed against the wooden building trying to keep yourself focused on thinking. “Y/n!?” The voice grows more urgent and scared the closer it gets. You turn your head to the side seeing two blurred figures running toward you. The closer it gets the more they merge until you make out Dean’s body. Everything drops beside him as he sprints towards you. “NO! No no no!” He yells before sliding infront of you. His hand replaces yours and keeps pressure applied to your chest, not noticing the bleeding in your stomach.

“I killed the hybrid.. Sarah.. Sarah is she safe?..” You gasp out trying to push past the pain. “Sammy has her, she’s going to be alright, you’re going to be alright.. you’re.. it’s going to be okay..” You smile and nod at his words only to feel the pulsing pain throughout your body. Your eyes close trying to focus on pushing away the pain. When you reopen them you see the way Dean’s eyes tear up. A wince finds your lips. “Dammit..” You whisper making him tense. “What, what is it?” He panics trying to see where else you are hurt. “It’s not that.. it’s.. dammit you were right.. i guess I can’t help but play the hero..” A sad laugh escapes your lips before a cough follows. Your dry lips get covered with blood filling your mouth.

“No don’t say that.. it’s ok, I’m going to get you some help. SAM! We are going to get you help! SAMMY!” Dean yells out as your hand moves up to hold his wrist. “It was you Dean..” His eyes show pure confusion and pain in them. “What?” His eyes search yours trying to make sure they’re still on him. “The man I imagined settling down with.. I didn’t describe you with a family.. it’s because I always imagined having one with you..” You managed to choke all of that out before tears engulf you.

“Oh sweetheart I couldn’t imagine anyone else being a better mother than you.. that’s exactly why you need to hang on…” His head rest against your forehead as you struggle to keep it up. “I love you Dean.. I have to say it now..” A quiet cry escapes his lips. “I love you more than you could ever imagine.. it’s not your fault.. I wanted to be here.. with you.. I’m so happy to be here with you.. wherever you go.. I’m happy Dean.. that I’m here with you while I di-” “don’t.. do say that.. you’re not dying..” He cries out making you smile sadly.

“Dean.. I am..” You look down to where your hands held your shirt. He quickly pulls it up to reveal the gaping wound. You cry out as the fabric moves back over the wound. “Please Dean!.. just say it back.. I need to hear it.. I-I need to..” Both of you have been reduced to tears. You clutch onto his shirt trying to find something to keep you grounded.

“I love you so goddamn much it hurts. Everyday I’m scared of it. Scared of loving someone so much. Knowing that I can’t have you with me forever. Dammit you’ve changed everything inside of me. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling like this until I met you.. from the very first moment I saw you I knew you’d crush me..” You can’t help the sobs escaping your lips as Dean continues.

“I love you so much it hurts.. and it scares me.. I never meant for you to get hurt.” He sniffs trying to fight off the tears threatening to rain down. “I know Dean.. I always knew I’d go out on the job.. it was just a matter of when and how.. I’m just thankful it’s here with you.. I don’t ever wanna be alone.. please.. just stay here.. just for the moment..” You shudder as your body grows weaker.

“Dean?! Y/n?!” Sam’s voice fills your ears. “I want.. to say goodbye.. to both of you.” Your hand trembles against his arm struggling to keep pressure on your wound. Sam came running around the corner only to halt the moment he saw the two of you. “Hey Sammy..” You smile as tears flow down your cheeks. “No..” His brows furrow before he rushes over to kneel beside you. “I told him.. about what we talked about.. goddammit..” The tears have you choking up as you try to speak. Tears have already found Sam’s eyes.

“I’m sorry.. I know both of you wanted me to stay behind.. I know.. I’m a stubborn bitch… but dammit I love you boys.. take care of him would you Sammy?..” You ask only for him to nod. He doesn’t try to hold back any emotions. “Can I talk to Dean.. alone..” You asks before dozing off. Sam hesitates before getting up. “I love you..” He says making you smile. “Go take care of Sarah.. she needs.. mm.. she needs someone to be with her.” He nods before heading away in tears.

Deans hand reaches up to wipe the blood from your lips. “Such.. a gentleman..” You say slowly making him laugh bittersweetly. His eyes can’t seem to look anywhere else but your own. “I can’t seem to get enough of those eyes of yours.. can’t get enough of them..” Your voice was quiet and weak. “I think that’s what I truly fell in love with..” Your hand slips from his as everything becomes too heavy. He tries steadying your body as the life fades from you, quicker than before. “I’ll see you soon.. Dean..” With every ounce of strength you have left, you move your head to press your lips against his. He kisses back trying to take in every last feeling of you. Knowing when he pulls away it will all be gone.. the moment your body goes limp he pulls away full on sobbing with you in his arms. No one around to witness the mess you’ve made him.

Dean sat there with you in his arms for an hour.

He prayed to God, he prayed to Cas, he prayed to anyone listening, begging for them to save you. To bring you back to him.

One full hour of tearful pleading.

Sam had come back to tell him the police were coming to get Sarah so they had to leave. He’d helped carry your body back to the car. Dean refused to leave you, he also chose a proper burial for you. From the moment he saw you crumpling to the ground he knew he’d be doing everything to get you back. So instead of burning your body, he put you in a grave. After all you would need a body to return to.

Cas had heard his prayers. The desperation in Dean’s voice as he pleaded for you to be saved and returned to him. The cries and begging that Dean spouted out. He’d listened to every word. Eventually he managed to locate you.

Dean promised he’d get you back. That he wouldn’t let you die.

His promise held true as you clawed your way out of the dirt containing your body.

You were coming home.

A/n: Welp I guess I love to make myself cry.. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m a sucker for angst but I wasn’t just going to let you stay dead, that’s not how Supernatural works ;). I’m debating writing a part 2 if enough people want it. If there are any spelling errors just let me know and I’ll work to fix them :)

#x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester #dean supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #sam winchester #angst #supernatural angst #dean winchester angst #spn #supernatural dean #dean winchester spn

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xoxolaw · 18 hours ago

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Hi, how are you? I hope everything its fine. ✨

Can i request a fic about seong-je, where he's with the reader for a few weeks now, and the reader's friends (Baku ecc...) start to suspect that she's seeing someone and start investigating who It could be, since she's always try to avoid their questions, until one day they find out and don't take It well.

Thank you for your work, your writing is beautiful. 💕

+ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗘'𝗦 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗗𝗢𝗡'𝗧 𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗪

in which her friends uncover the secret she's been hiding—only to learn that love doesn't always look the way they expect it to.

+ 𝗚𝗘𝗨𝗠 𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚-𝗝𝗘 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

fluff

It started off harmless.

Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Just a few ignored calls. Some half-hearted excuses. A subtle shift in the way she smiled when they asked where she’d been.

It was nothing, really. Nothing they’d notice.

Except they did.

Because it wasn’t nothing to them. Not to Baku, not to Si-eun, and especially not to Gotak.

And that was the problem.

✮⋆˙

“You’ve been acting weird,” Baku said one afternoon, voice too blunt to be casual, too heavy to brush off.

They sat on the steps outside Eunjang’s gym, the sun throwing long, gold-tipped shadows across the pavement. Sweat still clung to his collarbone from practice, but his eyes were sharp—watchful.

She barely looked up from her drink. “Weird how?”

He didn’t blink. “Like… ghosting the group chat. Ducking questions. Sneaking off early every damn time we hang out.”

“Last Friday too,” Gotak added, his voice soft, almost reluctant. He was seated just below them, thumbs nervously picking at the damp label on his water bottle. “You said you had a call. Something about your cousin.”

A lie. A lazy one. Her stomach twisted around it.

Across from them, Si-eun flipped a page in his book but didn’t look up.

“You always say you’re tired. Or busy,” he said, voice even and cold. “Yet your phone lights up like a Christmas tree every time you turn it face-down.”

She tried to laugh, even forced a smirk. “Wow. You guys sound like jealous boyfriends.”

But no one laughed.

And in that silence, she realized just how thin her lies had worn.

✮⋆˙

It was getting harder to lie. Not just to them—but to herself.

Because every time she walked away from her friends, she was walking toward him.

Geum Seong-je. All smirks and bruised knuckles and a name that echoed through alleys like a warning.

With him, everything felt dangerous. Chaotic. Addictive.

But he looked at her like she wasn’t. Like she was something soft and untouchable. The one thing he didn’t want to ruin.

And that was worse. Because it made her want to believe this was more than what it looked like.

That maybe he wasn’t just the monster they painted him to be.

Even if he kind of was.

Even if they’d never understand.

Especially because they wouldn’t.

✮⋆˙

That night, Seong-je pulled her into him with lazy ease, his arms slipping around her waist like they belonged there. The hum of the city below faded as his lips brushed the corner of her mouth.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “Something up?”

Her head fell to his shoulder. He always smelled like smoke, leather, and the last thing she should want.

But there was something warm underneath it—something steady.

“They’re starting to notice,” she whispered.

He gave a low chuckle against her skin. “Let them.”

“They’re not going to take it well.”

He tilted her chin, thumb grazing her bottom lip. “They’re not the ones kissing you like this.”

And then he did kiss her. Slow. Possessive. Like he had all the time in the world and wanted to ruin it all on her.

She kissed him back, even as something inside her screamed not to.

Because he made her feel like the world stopped spinning when he touched her.

And she wasn’t ready to let go of that yet.

✮⋆˙

The truth didn’t just slip out. It detonated.

It was a Thursday. She’d promised to come study at Baku’s place—something routine. Familiar.

But at the last minute, she sent a half-hearted text: headache. can’t make it. sorry.

She didn’t know they’d follow her.

Didn’t know they’d track her.

And she definitely didn’t expect to get caught wrapped up in Seong-je’s arms in the alley behind Kanghak—his jacket around her shoulders, his hand curled protectively at her waist.

She heard the sound of footsteps too late. Felt her body go cold before she even turned.

“Y/N?”

Baku’s voice cracked like thunder.

Her spine went rigid. Her heart stopped.

Behind him stood Jun-tae, Si-eun, and Gotak—each of them wearing a different shade of disbelief. Betrayal. Hurt.

Jun-tae was the first to react, mouth agape. “No. No fucking way.”

Gotak’s eyes landed on Seong-je’s hand. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

Si-eun’s expression didn’t change, but the white-knuckled grip of his fists said enough.

Seong-je didn’t flinch. He just raised a brow, smug and unconcerned. “Ah. The rescue squad.”

“Him?” Baku’s voice was tight. Bitter. “You’re with him?”

Her throat closed. She tried to speak, but the words tangled.

“Since when?” Gotak asked quietly. Like he didn’t want the answer but needed it anyway.

“A few weeks,” she managed, barely above a whisper.

The rain started then. Soft at first. A drizzle that turned into a cold, unforgiving sheet.

Jun-tae took a step forward. “A few weeks? You’ve been lying to us for weeks?”

“She didn’t lie,” Seong-je drawled, clearly bored now. “She just didn’t owe you the truth.”

Baku lunged, but Gotak grabbed his arm, held him back.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Baku snarled at her. “You’re dating him? After everything he’s done?”

“I’m not dating Union,” she snapped, voice cracking. “I’m dating him.”

“That is him!” Jun-tae shouted. “He is Union!”

Her chest heaved, vision blurring with heat and rain and guilt. She looked at each of them—boys she’d bled with, laughed with, leaned on.

None of them looked at her the same way anymore.

Only with disappointment. Disbelief. And something that hurt more than anything:

Distance.

✮⋆˙

That night, she sat on the rooftop of Seong-je’s apartment, knees tucked to her chest, hair clinging to her cheeks in wet strands.

She didn’t hear him arrive. Just felt the shift of the air as he slid down beside her.

“They found out,” she said hoarsely.

“I was there.”

“I think I lost them.”

He didn’t speak. The silence stretched.

“They’re like my family,” she added, quieter now. “They’ve always been.”

A long pause.

“And what am I?” he asked finally. The question was soft. Honest. It caught her off guard.

She turned to him, heart aching. “I don’t know.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked away, the mask slipping for a second. “Some phase, huh?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re not a phase.”

He turned back to her. Leaned in. Pressed his forehead against hers.

“I know what you are,” he whispered.

“What?”

His hand reached up, brushing a rain-soaked strand from her cheek. His thumb lingered.

“Mine.”

And this time, when he kissed her, it wasn’t reckless.

It was full of everything they couldn’t say.

✮⋆˙

The next day, she didn’t show up to school.

Not because she was afraid of facing them. But because she didn’t know how.

How to look them in the eye when all she could think about was the way they looked at her last night—like she was something they didn’t recognize anymore.

She didn’t eat. Barely slept. Her phone buzzed with unread messages:

Baku [3 missed calls]

Si-eun: You okay.

Gotak: Let me know if you want to talk.

Jun-tae: …Seriously?

She didn’t respond.

✮⋆˙

It took two more days before she finally showed up to the old basketball court behind the gym. The one they used to hang out at after class. The one that still smelled like sun-warmed rubber and sweat and summer.

They were all there. Waiting.

The moment she stepped into view, silence fell like a blanket.

Even Baku didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at her, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, brows low and unreadable.

Gotak gave her a faint nod. Si-eun didn’t look up from his bench. Jun-tae folded his arms and looked away entirely.

She swallowed hard. “Can we talk?”

No one answered.

She stepped into the center of the court. It felt like standing trial.

“I know you’re angry,” she said. “I don’t blame you.”

Still nothing. Her throat burned, but she pushed forward.

“But I didn’t lie to hurt you. I didn’t mean to lie at all—it just… happened. One moment, it was nothing. And the next…” Her voice wavered. “He was kind. He listened. He never made me feel small.”

Baku let out a hollow laugh. “Seong-je? Kind? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“He is,” she said quietly. “Not to you. I get that. But with me… he’s different.”

“That’s the problem,” Jun-tae stated. “You only see the version you get.”

“I know what he’s done.” Her voice was low now, but firm. “I’m not pretending he’s perfect. I’m not stupid.”

“Then what are you?” Baku asked, tone biting. “Just blind?”

“No.” She paused. “Just… tired of being told who I’m allowed to love.”

That shut them up.

The words hung heavy in the air, soaked with honesty and hurt.

“He’s not what you think,” she continued, softer now. “I’ve seen him at his worst too. I’m not excusing anything. But he’s never tried to hide from me. Never lied to me. Never judged me when I broke down in his arms at 2AM because I couldn’t sleep. Because I thought you would hate me if you knew.”

Her eyes flicked to Baku. “He holds me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.”

To Si-eun. “He’s the only one who knew I’ve been having panic attacks again.”

To Gotak. “He makes me laugh when I forget how to.”

And finally, to Jun-tae. “He tells me I’m strong when I feel like I’m falling apart.”

Another beat of silence.

Then—quietly, like it pained him—Gotak spoke first. “Did you tell him about… us?”

She nodded. “All of it.”

“And he still…?”

“Still looks at me like I’m the only soft thing in his world.”

Si-eun’s voice was neutral. But it came with a weight. “What happens when that world swallows you whole?”

Her eyes met his. “Then I’ll fight my way back.”

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then Baku stepped forward.

He didn’t look angry anymore. Just tired. Conflicted.

“You love him?” he asked.

She didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Another pause.

And then, with a heavy sigh, Baku muttered, “Fuck.”

It wasn’t acceptance. Not yet.

But it wasn’t rejection either.

“Fine,” he said at last, rubbing a hand through his hair. “If he hurts you, I will kill him.”

“Me too,” Jun-tae muttered, still scowling.

Gotak gave a quiet hum. “I think I want to meet the version of him you see.”

Even Si-eun shut his book with a sigh. “You’d better not start showing up with matching jackets.”

And just like that, the ice cracked.

It wasn’t completely thawed—but it was enough.

She let out a shaky breath and stepped closer. “Thank you. For still letting me show up.”

Baku rolled his eyes. “We’re not that forgiving. We just like you more than we hate him.”

“But not by much,” Jun-tae added darkly.

She laughed—small, but real.

And for the first time in days, it didn’t feel like she had to choose between the boy who held her heart and the friends who held her history.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Hope you enjoyed this!!

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@sunnyophelia @atztrsr @snoopsyka @cayrelyra @symphonies-of-poenies @ghost-reine @ginaaaa29 @gacktsa @inom17 @coffee-ii @dna-black-and-blue @intoanothermind @satoru2716 @kyungjunnies @changbinkisser @mishh2728 @0waves2earth @ashayein @janjoonty @ineed-myspace @loveg4lore @itzcandy

#fanfic #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #weak hero webtoon #geum seong je #geum seong je x reader #geum seongje x reader #wolf keum

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