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corroded-hellfire · 2 days ago

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By the Book - Eddie Munson x Reader

An As You Wish story

Summary: Eddie takes your daughter on a trip to the bookstore.

Note: This came about because @munson-blurbs and I were in a bookstore and heard a mom call for her daughter Eliza 🥺

Words: 1.2k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Ooh, what about this one?”

Eliza stacks an eighth book on top of the pile she’s amassed on the low table set in the middle of the children’s section.

Eddie releases a small huff of laughter from his place on the tiny giraffe chair across from his daughter. He loves that Eliza wants to buy books for her younger siblings, but, in true Munson fashion, she’s going a bit overboard.

“We already have one about ducks, don’t we?” Eddie asks.

“They are geese,” the almost-kindergartener tells him. “I like this one with the superhero.”

“I could read that to them while they wear the Superman and Wonder Woman pajamas that Luke bought them,” Eddie says.

“Yeah!” She happily slides that book closer to her father. “Can I get a book?”

“Sure thing, sweet pea. But we’re not going to be able to get all of these for the babies. They’re so little and there’s plenty of time to get them more books.”

Eliza sighs in disappointment, the exhale so strong that it blows some curls off her forehead.

“Okay,” she reluctantly replies. “But these.”

She pushes two copies of Corduroy in his direction. One side of Eddie’s mouth quirks up in a smile; he remembers that as one of the few books in his room as a young boy.

“That’s a good book,” Eddie says, picking up one of the books. “But why do we need two?”

The withering look Eliza gives him makes him wonder if he’s the one whose brain hasn’t fully developed yet, not hers. She’s a very convincing almost-four-year-old.

“You can’t buy for one baby and not other!”

Eddie chuckles softly, but kindly.

“Lize, they don’t each need a book,” he explains. “I can’t read two books at the same time, but they can both listen to one at the same time.”

“Oh.” Eliza plops down in the elephant chair next to her. She purses her lips, and Eddie tilts his head to the side in question.

“What’s up?”

Big brown eyes meet his own and Eddie sees a rare flash of timidity go across her face. She looks down at the table and the pad of her forefinger traces invisible patterns. The hesitation makes Eddie furrow his brow—he can’t remember the last time Eliza didn’t speak her mind.

“How do I be a big sister?” Her voice is soft, unsure.

“Oh,” Eddie says in surprise. That’s not something he was expecting. His heart reaches out to his daughter, crestfallen that this has been a thought that’s been growing inside of her. “Liza, you’re already a wonderful big sister.”

“But I dunno stuff. How am I gonna hold two babies?”

“Ah,” Eddie hums. He nods in head in understanding, offering her a gentle smile. “That’s confusing, huh? How to cuddle both babies at the same time? What do the babies share and what do they have their own of? What to do when they both cry?”

“Uh huh.”

“Wanna know a secret?”

Eliza looks up and bobs her head up and down.

“Sometimes I don’t know the answer to that either.” The little girl looks shocked at his response, which makes him chuckle. “It’s complicated, isn’t it? Mama and I learn as we go, though.”

“Mama gets ‘fused too?” she asks.

“Yeah. Mama and I have never had twins before. It’s something new.” He reaches over and gently taps his fingers up her wrist. “And you’ve never been a big sister before. Or a sister to twins. That’s also new and something you’ll learn as you grow up. Your brothers, too. And when you were born, Luke had to learn how to be a big brother. He didn’t know.”

“So, Luke knows now?”

Eddie winces, his mind trying to figure out a proper reply to that.

“Maybe a different source of information would be better,” he finally says. His eyes light up as an idea pops into his head. “Why don’t we see if they have a book on being a big sister?”

“Okay.” Eliza slides off of her chair and Eddie pushes himself up out of his with a groan.

He cracks his back and looks down at the giraffe chair. He shakes his head; he’s proud of himself for getting up after being down so low. His long legs, he’d argue—that’s what made it hard. Not his age.

The two of them leave the pile of baby books on the table as they venture over to the shelves. It doesn’t take long to find what they’re looking for. The section is actually quite large, which has Eddie smiling down at his daughter.

“Look at all these books,” he says. “Lots of people need to learn how to have a little sibling—or siblings.”

The reassurance seems to chase away Eliza’s insecurity as she scans the book covers with eager eyes. A soft hum emanates from her as she allows her fingers to brush against a few at eye level.

“I like this one,” she says, stopping on a particularly pink book. No surprise there.

Eddie pulls it from the shelf and looks over the cover.

“I Love Being A Big Sister,” he reads. “That sounds perfect for you.”

A smile grows on Eliza’s face and warmth spreads through Eddie’s chest.

“I do love it!” she says.

“I know you do!” Eddie boops the tip of her nose with a ringed finger. He nods towards the rest of the books in the children’s section. “Want to find another book too?”

“Yes!” All the light and excitement are officially back in his little girl. She twirls around, holding her hands above her head. “I want a book with a ballerina!”

Eddie walks over to set down the book he’s holding on top of the pile for the twins—silently deciding that he will buy all of those books after all. If you say anything about it when they get home, he’ll just say that he wants them to be as educated as possible. How can you argue with that?

“A ballerina princess!” Eliza squeals. Her little feet tap in place, her hands stretch up towards the book just out of her reach.

Whipped father that he is, Eddie comes over and gets the book down for her before she even has to ask.

“Ah!” Eliza cheers. She clutches the book to her chest and begins to twirl once more. After two spins, she leaps towards the table, in an attempt to mirror the action of the ballerina princess on the cover of her new book.

“Happy with your choice?” He already knows the answer of course.

“Mhmm!” she hums. “Can we read it to Scarlett, too? Even if it’s my book?”

Eddie grins and leans down to press a kiss to the top of her curls.

“Absolutely, sweet pea. See? You’re already the most thoughtful big sister.”

She beams up at him with a proud smile and it’s enough to melt Eddie on the spot. Luckily for him, Eliza picks up her books and heads in the direction of the checkout—because if she asked, Eddie would’ve bought her the whole store.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #older!eddie #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fan fic #eddie munson imagine #dad!eddie #AYW #AYWS

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starshipsofstarlord · 2 days ago

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divine like aged wine | daryl dixon

summary. daryl begins to feel like you will get bored of him sooner or later as he is older than you, and starting to show his age. you show him just how much that doesn’t matter, and that despite the grey hairs and looming wrinkles, that you still love him (6.2k)

warnings. smut, oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, praise, slight hair pulling, insecure!daryl, older!daryl + younger!reader (reader is mid 30s, daryl is mid 50s), age gap relationship, mentions of death, angst, fluff

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

The silhouette that Daryl saw in the mirror was a different man than who he had once been, he was no longer the young tracker that he was at the beginning of the outbreak. He’d aged, and there were clear staples in his appearance that made that evident. His hair was waved with its grown out length, and he carried the definition of crows feet around his eyes; his eyes that had witnessed so much misery, that had cried when he had mourned those lost.

He was bulkier, his arms held memorised muscle from his tactical efforts of taking down walkers and fighting the bad men and disastrous women that wished to cause pain in order to earn themselves power through the transpiring impact of fear. But that weight that rested either side of his torso had also brought additional huskiness to his stomach, he was no longer slender and lean like he had been when he had met you, he was a unit of the world’s making, and he was losing his appetite from looking at himself.

It would be a sin to deny the prize of food, he was aware of that, considering that in the past tense he had to survive days without consuming a meal, and you were preparing the finest dining that you could effectively make in the dim reality of the apocalypse. Years had gone by and he’d never once taken in his appearance so sullenly, but the chaos had calmed for the moment, and his thoughts were entangling in his insecure peripheral. Perhaps he could eat less, he thought to himself, understanding that there were men in better shape than him whom would risk their life to be sat at the dining table by your side.

Daryl squinted his eyes at the version of him that appeared in the bathroom mirror, the act bringing more attentive focus to the scar that ran down the left side of his face. It was on the right in the crafted glass which opposed the realistic truth, and he raised his hand to slant his fingertips against the damaged flesh. It was best for him not to turn, he was focally aware of the scars which were imbedded with cruel love upon his back’s damaged canvas. If he told himself that he was not troubled goods, he’d be lying to himself, he was imposed with the tragically acclaimed boulder of daunting tragedy casting a bland and aging shadow across his entire being.

The towel hung lowly on his wide hips, shielding the appendage that fuelled his testosterone from his own belittling view. He didn’t want to change into his everyday clothing, he’d have to discard the material that concealed half of his body and see another mound of flaws that made his heart heavier. He was lost in the time frame in which he had been discriminating his body, it had felt as though everything had been put on pause around him. But that was idly not the certified case, the soft approaching footfalls met with his ears before the door creaked to be ajar, and Daryl whipped around on the intrusion.

It was the first time that he in fact minded being interrupted following a shower by you, he’d never once flinched at your presence, and that made a light frown appear on your surprised complexion. He had been too cooped up in picking apart all the things that he did not like about his form that he had almost forgotten that you had expected him to return to you in the kitchen, and he felt surreally guilty that you had walked in on him during such a disappointing moment. “Is everything alright Daryl?” Your tone made it clear that you were concerned, and that emotion was only emphasised when he drew his gaze to the floor.

As he did so he realised that even his feet had scuffs and blisters on them, and he felt repulsed. He was attuned with the morals that he followed, but he hated the capsule of flesh that he was trapped in whilst he routinely kept somehow striving onwards. Before there had hardly been a moment where he could ponder on all the things that he despised of himself, but now there was, he realised that he had a dislike towards everything that his body had grown into. “‘m fine.” His words were not convincing, Daryl did not give you the chance however to get a conforming answer, he strode out of the bathroom, gripping his towel around himself with tight fingers as he fled from your view.

You stood there in your lonely and confusedly adjourned suffering, misunderstanding the cold attitude you had seemingly earned. All you had clambered the stairs to find Daryl was so that you could inform him that supper was ready, but he had slunk away into your bedroom, taking up the efforts of closing said door behind his retreat. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stared into the mirror, your saddened reflection gazing tiredly at you, feeling fruitless in your attempts to make the man that you loved happy. Maybe he had fallen out of love with you, you thought with solemn afflictions, knowing that if he had it would still be impossible to hate him.

The behaviour that Daryl was displaying was strange, and you felt as though you were the root for the cause, especially since he had been aiming his attention in any direction but you. With a shaky sigh you ran your hands through your hair, tidying up the frizzed strands that had moved on their own accord from the heat of the stove. Spite boiled up inside of you as you saw your first mere strand of grey, however you held it in, shaking your head softly as you realised that there were bigger problems in the current world than your own appearance. You were in your mid thirties, making you roughly twenty years more youthful than your lover.

It had never been a problem before, your age that was, it had barely come up in conversation. With a surrender towards Daryl wishing to be left alone, you trudged back down the stairs, eating your meal by yourself and enclosing the portion that you had spared for him in a tupperware container, assuming that he would venture downstairs to eat it later. But later never came, the house remained indignantly silent and still throughout the falling dusk, and you twiddled your fingers with nerves. He needed some time to mull whatever was racketing through his brain over, and you wanted to give that to him, and so you pulled a blanket onto the couch, deciding that was where you were to lay your head tonight.

Dog curled up on your midsection, and you ran a numb hand along his back, ruffing up the fur and then smoothing it down. He was nuzzled atop of you, his chin curled in the crook of your neck, gifting you with more warmth than the blanket with. The company of the loyal canine made you feel a tad better from the distantness that Daryl had treated you with, your brain mulled over the situation as you drifted out of consciousness, feeling dread for the approaching morning. You would discover the rouse that was clouding Daryl's brain, and aid him in fixing whatever was broken within it. As you closed your eyes and drifted off, you were oblivious to Daryl's presence descending down the stairs.

The bowman watched your peaceful slumber without disturbing you, his weapon of standard choice draped over his shoulder with its leather strap. He felt guilty leaving the house in the night when you were asleep, but he found solace in clearing his head through the art of hunting. To be outside the walls was something that he had always favoured, and whilst this was his home and so were you, he was aware that he was in dire need to screw his head on straight. It wasn’t fair for him to take his toll of insecurity out on you, and guilt bubbled within him from his sudden exit from the bathroom previously.

He was now draped in his outdoor wear, the same damming boots slung on his feet that had given him those gnarly blisters. There was no time for rest, he thought solemnly, it would only enforce the fact that he was growing older in your mind, and that wasn’t how he wanted you to picture him. He wanted to be the lean, protective redneck that he once was, the one that you had met during the outbreak. There was a dwindling twine of sadness that harboured within him, there was no situation where he could go back into the far past, he’d been too preoccupied with searching for a future in which you would all survive that he hardly had a chance to glance backwards.

But now the calm of the storm had set, he had that opportunity, and he resented the journey that had drifted him into the arms of safety. Your arms would be the angelic wings that would console him, but admitting his insecurities would only damage the exterior that he had built up throughout the difficult years. His age was the threat that grabbed with ferocity at his throat, with each passing 365 days his body was now growing weaker, slowing down only had the capability of enforcing the democratic, virtuous stance of becoming a senior citizen.

He wished to bend down and press a featherlight kiss to the brim of your forehead before he departed, though he would be swindled with repenting guilt if he were to wake you, and so he plodded by his lonesome out the front door, Dog watching his fleeing footsteps with one eye open. The weight that pressed infinitely down onto his shoulders did not lessen as he stalked away, his eyes were withdrawn from anything that he could fixate on, he was relevantly seeking out a distraction in his mind. There was a subdued ache in his knee, and he had gotten used to the afflicting discomfort despite it making him feel eons older. He assured that the door closed with nothing more than the click of the flattened hinge, and Dog's ears pricked up from the sound, though he remained across your torso.

The sonnet of chorusing crickets rattled their legs against their emerald wings outdoors, the symphonised ruckus leading you to peel your eyes open. It was still fairly early in the morn, the dawning sunbeams casting shapes and dusty shadows across the wooden floorboards. Dog remained atop of you, groaning with a tiresome tone as you shuffled beneath him, removing yourself from the horizontal position that you had slept in so that you could simply be seated on the aged couch. You felt disdained, there was an enveloping silence in the house, and as you drifted your gaze over to the front door, you could only release a defeated sigh. Whilst the door remained in its closed state, the scarred boots that fit Daryl's feet and his companioning crossbow had vanished from their placements.

Daryl had left. Left you and your home to find the flavour of solace elsewhere, and you were conveyed with regretful sadness; you should have assured him that he was able to open up to you, followed him earnestly until you were assured that he was fine. The youngest Dixon was the man that you had heartedly fallen for, and whilst the deterrences that he had faced had impacted him, he was still the one that you loved. With shaky hands you brushed your knuckles under your eyes, refraining any tearful emotion from sloping down your face in the form of beaded salt. There was something the matter, and it was upon you in dutiful position to uncover what it was.

You remained seated, Dog beside you as you waited and waited. However your head instantaneously whipped to the side as you heard the door moan to be ajar, and watched as Daryl entered your home with the look of failure written in irritated scripture on his face. He’d been out hunting, it was clear from his attire and stance, however there was no game strung to his belt loops, it was starved from any prey. Daryl dared not glance at you, despite how besotted with you he was - he just wasn’t good enough, those words repeatedly whirled in his brain like a thorn stuck in his side. This time though, you were not going to let the silence create a divided space between the both of you, and so you stood, and crossed the entry way into the living space. Dog retreated from his seating, first going over to greet Daryl before excusing himself, no doubt going to rest on your bed in peace.

“Talk.” The command was missing the pressure that the word often enforced by it, instead your tone was as light as a feather, it brushed across his ears in a gentle caress that tickled his senses, and you hoped that it did not provoke his problem once more. You reached out with your palm, holding his jaw with sweet exasperation as you angled his irises to connect the dots with your own. “Whatever the matter is D, communicate it with me. I’m here to listen, it’s give and take in this relationship, so don’t, for the love of god, do not shut me out.” He wasn’t going to back away this time, the sigh that he released with fruitless despair stated as much. Even though he was evading direct eye contact, he licked his dry lips as he began to speak, his sentence breaking your heart into helpless smithereens.

“I’m gettin’ old, sunshine, an’ one of these days, you’re gonna get bored of me.” There was a somber cast across his blue paned irises, derived from his prevailing insecurities that gripped him suffocatingly tight. “An’ that’s alrigh’ if yer do, I get it. Jus’ wanna be with ya fer as long as I can.” The rolling pebble of emotion drifted down his waterline, despite the irony of him leaving to hunt. Perhaps it was his sorrowful minded thinking of lessening the blow on himself of the departure that would inhibit him from losing you, though his brain’s protective coping mechanisms were righteously silly, as you had not once had the intention of ever abandoning Daryl, and you never would.

“We’re all aging honey,” you proclaimed, copiously understanding that the toll in which your partner was experiencing were enhanced due to him being your elder age wise. But since the beginning of the outbreak, none of you were as youthful as you had began your walker killing journey on, and since being induced with every inkling of distasteful grievances that outlined your persons, you certainly all appeared older than your first scuff of survival. “And that is definitely not a flaw; we’ve lived through years of shit that has been thrown out of blue at us, and we are the ones who have lived through it. You are still Daryl Dixon, the man that I love and will always love. Your age does not define what you mean to me, and it never will. I have fought my ass off to remain beside you, and there is nobody, nobody else that I would rather have settled down with. We aren’t young any more, and there’s nothing wrong with that, we’ve grown older together, and I intend to grow even older with you until our last days.”

Daryl was possessed by speechlessness, his tongue felt like it was trapped by the sharp indent of a pin that held it to the bottom of his mouth, he was strongly relieved that was your point of your view on his mental qualms, though there were still some sirens springing a constant, nightmarish lullaby in his head. “Bu’-“ He felt as though his insistent problems may irritate you after your consoling speech, and he did not want to rouse the need for your forgiveness in the air. But he could not in-debt himself with remaining quiet now, not since he had opened his worrisome rambling heart up to you. “You still attracted ta me though? I’ve got all those ol’ scars, an’ I’ve got wrinkles now, an’ I ain’t as fast on my feet as I used ta be.”

“Daryl, honey.” You braced your hands on the same biceps that were often once flaunted by his torn sleeveless flannels, holding him steady as you leant your face closer, the tips of your noses tapping against each other. “None of that makes you any less beautiful to me, it shows that you have survived an eerily long time, and I cherish anything that you see as a flaw in yourself. Because to me, you don’t have any flaws, sure sometimes there’s decisions you make that I don’t agree with, but we all do things in the spur of the moment. And in no moment will I up and leave you for a singular reason, as there is nothing that you could do or have upon your flesh that could ease everything that I feel toward you.” You words were viper sharp with passion, and in the midst of your sentimental wording, your bodies had drawn against one another, in the proximity that you never took advantage of. Just being close to Daryl was a gift, there was a whim of it being the last time, and so you made sure that you made the most of it.

“I love you woman, more than I ever thought I could.” He traced the outline of your form with comforted serenity, his hands picked your own in the clasp of his unshackled wrists, as his thumbs stroked across the back of them. “An’ there ain’ nothin’ that could stop me from worshippin’ ya. Yer sweeter than those nasty berries that you and Maggie planted, an’ more peaceful than watching the river brush over itself.” His face lowered, as he nudged the hair out of your adoration filled expression, kissing you with vigorous need. You participated with as much necessity, as you breathed heavily through your nose for oxygen access. Your body was endorsed by the coursing adrenaline that travelled within your veins, your heart was palpitating uncontrollably in your chest from the premise of a sexual endeavour with the only man in the world that you were so enamoured with.

Releasing his hands, you gripped his locks, tugging at the rooted strands as Daryl cupped your waist with sensual desire. Your mouths were copiously in sync, moulded together in blissful animosity, as you devoured every inch of controllable humanity that rested in your skeletal bodies. He moaned into your mouth as you gave one last defying tug to the brunette strands attached to his scalp, before your fingers inadvertently danced with poisoned temptation upon the metal buckle of his belt. You laughed lightly as you gave yourselves a momentous breath from locking lips, as you unshackled the entrapment that encircled his waist, allowing the combination of metal and leather to fall to the ground. “Boots off too?” You enquired, and Daryl smiled, loving how well you knew him, the blisters were excruciating although he had masked the biting pain whilst you were orally entangled in arousing physicality.

“Yeah.” He smiled, his cheekbones becoming brightly prominent during the emphasis of his lips; with you he felt truly happy, more so now that he knew that you accepted him with age riddling his entirety. “Take ‘em off sunshine.” His tone was as smooth as a block of farmhouse butter, and you were attuned to the fact that he was not referring to his tattered footwear. With the tasking tips of your fingertips, you drew down the teeth of his zipper on the jeans that he wore, descending the metal partition lower until the top of his trailed abdomen was exposed, and the tough denim became looser around his waist. The coil of starving lust swirled around in your stomach as you shimmied the hugging fabric lower until his precum ebbed length sprung up from its aroused state. He needed this, and you, and whilst he often had the preference of being the giver in these situations, he was captivated with the notion of being the centre of your devoted attention.

Daryl always looked out for others, it was a loyal tendency that he hadn’t ever relinquished, and he felt proud with you being the focal point of his priorities, though it was admittedly nice for him to feel cherished by your body and mind. His hips surprisedly jolted as you wrapped your hand around the thick girth of his cock, the contact causing an array of hormones to shoot out from the core of his apocalyptic designed being. Air rasped in puffs inwards and outwards from his mouth as you stroked him, your motions being made up from slow and teasing intentions. You wanted him to feel like he was about to burst, he had to feel alive, which was the most important part of surviving as if there was no other time to breathe a last breath. The tip of his cock was a deep hue of pink like a well gardened rose petal, precum leaking from the slit at the very top.

Daryl’s arousal rarely was as apparently throbbing in the visual aspect department in comparison to the present; his length would usually already been sheathed within one of your pleasurable spots, such as your mouth or cunt. Patience was not a virtue to either one of you, however you wished to admire every inch of his ridged flesh, as its weight was balanced in perfect disposition upon your palm. The desire to taste his supple flesh was crawling down your spine in a stoking manner, causing bumps of paralleled anticipation to outline the shape of your vulnerable human skin. You were salivating, the moisture wafted around your tongue as you leant closer to Daryl’s shaft, the swelling waiting time lessening as you opened your mouth to take his length within its oral capacity.

“F-fuck.” His accented whisper was strewn ruggedly out from his lips as he bit stubbornly at his bottom one from the sensations that raptured his soul that had felt weakened by the clouding insecurities that bereaved any whisper of judgment into a contorted flaw which made him significantly lesser than he had once been. The feeling of your supple lips gliding down his length and towards the base of his wide cock made his mind become clouded from the affects of euphoria, it was a paradise of escape from the qualms that he often faced, and he was physically too weak to push your head away from his most personal area of his form. The large tip finally reached the back of your throat, and you swallowed down the instinct to gag, instead forcing your body’s primal limitations to continue applying pleasure to the man that you so wholly adored.

This was to be about him, and you found it to be your own duty to ensure it remained so, stretching your tongue out from beneath the heavenly weight of his cock to stroke farther down the parts of his shaft that you couldn’t quite accommodate to fit into your mouth. Your cheeks ached in a delightful way as your lips were stretched around his width, and you had to focus your breathing through your nostrils as there was no route for airflow to make passage through your mouthful of him. In a gentle notion, one of your hands found purchase around his balls, lightly stroking the skin to grant the man that you called your own more pleasure.

Sweat framed his brow, glistening beneath the dim lighting as it trickled upon his temples, his teeth gnawing frustratedly upon his bottom lip, peeling at the blood flushed flesh. This was the solace he needed, not the sexual advances of your warm, wet mouth, though he wasn’t to to complain about your heavenly lips, but you in your entirety, accepting and loving him as the same. It had riddled him with an anxiety that had rattled his bones throughout thinking that he was naught enough, contorting his mindset into one of wallowing in silence and submission that he never would be.

He was attained to wearing his flaws unto his sleeve, although you had finally brought silence to the insistent pacing of his mind. And though his body was tensed, it was for an alternative reason, as he fought off the inexplicable ending that his body would succumb to with a physical release. The motive to vanquish all tension from his body was upon him, barrelling through his veins in strokes of pleasure as your tongue danced over his sensitive flesh, but he relented, taking mouthfuls of air as he staved off from surrendering to emptying his seed into your mouth.

You were intoxicated by the careless sonnets that ripped out from his chest, they were almost that of a beast than a man. He was becoming feral, you could feel as much as his sack tightened, ready to spend all that lay within. But surprise chortled you as Daryl leant decisively backwards, pushing your head away from his nethers attentively, grasping lovingly at the line of your jaw. “Somethin’ wrong, honey?” You spoke now that your mouth was vacant of his length, ogling up at him with eyes that adored to take in his appearance, not only in moments like this.

Everything felt better now that you had consoled him with the assurance that you had no intentions of abandoning him in the now nor future, and he wanted to repay your kindness with his own actions, that too would bring him a simple man’s sin of gluttonous pleasure. He lightly pulled you up by your arms, bringing you closer to his height, his lips flush from the rotation of blood in his body that you had caused. “Nah.” Daryl answered, eyes trailing across each curve that shaped your figure with his heart practically in his throat. “Not a single thing, jus’ need ta be inside ya sunshine.”

It would be the most secure embrace that would ground him to his very core, a haven from all the shit that surrounded the both of you. Times like this reminded Daryl that the difference in age between the both of you in fact was not crucial, though sometimes it did numb his mind with it as a distraction. He pulled you to him, laying you delicately on the couch as though you may break, because you were fragile, but not in the literal sense he knew. There was nothing in the world that he cherished more than you, you were his slice of peace in the fucked up reality that you both endured, and he would be damned if he cracked any mental or physical attribute that your soul attained.

You resumed your battle of tongues, playfully biting his bottom lip that stirred an animosity within him, driving him forwards to clamber over your body, pressing himself closely to you, but it was still not close enough. His hands slithered downwards, pulling with uncoordinated vigour at your pants, appreciating the aid you granted him with removing them. He was consumed by his supple lust, a man hungered for the need to be connected with the woman who he loved. All that remained was your panties that concealed you from him, and he had little patience to toy with them.

And so he tore them from your hips, the cotton splitting in two from his lack of restraint, a half in each hand which he discarded on the floor, having peeled away all of the layers that kept your sex hidden from his gaze and touch. His digits could not resist in feeling the slick that had gathered upon your core, created from the image of him lost in his pleasure. It astounded him that your attraction to him could make you so drenched, practically lathered in a river of lust; even if he was aging you found him to be as beautiful as a deity, weathered by survival but still regarded among the gods. Though he didn’t see it, and you did, there was no other man remaining in the world that was like him, he was a perished breed of human that remained on the earth. A survivor, hardened by time but continually fighting for the beliefs that formed layers around his soul.

“Stop teasing Daryl. I thought you needed to be inside me.” His previous words spat desperately from your tongue, as you regarded him with an impatience to feel all of him. It was merely torturous waiting to feel every inch of him within your cunt, even as he adjusted himself, taking a grasp of his shaft and angling it to slide down to your entrance that was yearning to be stretched open by his length. He sung a groan out as he felt how much your body desired him against the tip of his cock, he wanted to bury himself within your heavenly warmth and become doused in the comfort that the tightness of you wrapped around him allowed him to surrender to.

His movement was slow yet backboned with intent as he pushed into you, breathing out a strung out breath that had built in his chest for far too long. He had felt inflicted by the consciousness of his wilting appearance the last handful of times that you had made love together, and he had hidden that voice. It had been imprisoned in the corners of his mind, and he had tried with determination to push it away but it had not yielded. But all he had required to dull the commenting thoughts that digressed his own body was you to pour your adoration onto him despite the flaws that he resented. “Fuuuuck.”

The tone of his voice was gravelly, stripped down by the raw emotion that he felt. Your nails imbedded themselves into his shoulder blades, sketching crescent moons into his clothed flesh as your head sank deeper into the seating of the couch. A moan was strangled out from your throat from the pleasure that sparked in your midsection as he pushed deeper into you, until he was filling you with his entirety. “You feel so- fuck, fucking good baby.” The praise that you bestowed upon Daryl lit him up like a flame, a depraved hunger danced behind his eyes like burning embers. From your words, he leaned back, his hands on either side of your head and pulled back, only to push straight back into your pussy, bringing both of you ample pleasure.

There was nothing that could compare to being so close to the man that raked his hips to pivot against your own, his pace building as the explosions of ecstasy transcended between your bodies like a cycled blood transfusion. Not a single thing. Each movement was an act of pristine intimacy, a link that blessed your vessels with the passion of having the ability to be so vividly close to one another. “So do you s-sunshine.” Daryl hissed out, having forgone thinking about a singular qualm that had blinded his perception of how lucky he was in this reality. He had survived this far, and not only that, but you had too, giving you the chance of a life together throughout the maelstrom like carnage that had changed the entire planet for eternity.

He felt his tongue become drowned by the gruff noises that it permitted to leave him, responding to each whimper and keen and moan that released from your parted, panting lips. His brow bone was tense with a frown put together by focus, as he stared down at your face, pride swelling in his chest as he had the knowledge that it was him giving you rolling waves of pleasure to spin uncontrollably throughout your veins. Your arousal coated him, making it far more easier to slide in and out of your succulent walls, they parted for him each time from the accustomed entry that you always granted him. He knew that he never had to worry about another man being in his position, he couldn’t imagine it, and nor could you from the blissful contortion that rested heavily and without care on your features.

“Getting close Dar.” The information was heaved out from puffs of air, your lips mindlessly moving even when words were not falling from them. Daryl too could feel the oncoming tide of his own release, it crept up on him like a hunting predator, staving off the kill until the prime opportunity presented itself. There was plenty of things that he was still not certain of in this world, but one that he was sure of was that he was going to ensure that you came first - as he always did. Daryl’s body continued to move, spinning the room out of focus for your eyes as he continued his motions, staggering his pace just a little, but not too much so that the looming of your high would not collapse and crumble.

Your legs bound themselves strictly around his waist, your teeth clenching as spots swayed in your vision, peppering the sight of the man fucking you with pixels of black and grey. He had you where he wanted you, topping over the edge of your orgasm as it transpired around you like an aura. He thought selfishly that he was pleased that no other soul had witnessed you appear so distracted, you were always on guard when out of the confines of your home, aware that the unexpected could traipse upon you at any second that it desired. “You getting there?” Too fucked out to form full sentences, you tangled your hands in his hair, and that seemed to pull the trigger within him.

The sound of your name escaped Daryl’s lips as he buried his head into the safety of your throat, spreading little kisses against your skin as his tension dissolved. Ropes of his seed spilled within you, filling your core as he remained inside, small, almost inaudible whimpers leaving him. You pressed your lips to the crown of his head as you brought your arms around him, cocooning him in the afterglow that you shared. He remained there for minutes longer, composing himself before he removed himself from your cunt, falling beside you on the couch that was too small for most, but for the both of you was as cozy as it could get. “Thank you sunshine.” Daryl murmured as he brought you closer to be resting against his body, and you stifled a chuckle at the doziness that had befallen him

“You don’t have to thank me for sex.” Your eyes rolled, but the archer shook his head of brown locks, his hand angling around you to raise your face to meet your his own, your lips meeting in a delicately languid kiss. His fingertips traced the line of your jaw, his heart swimming with leaps of love for you and only you. Daryl was a good man, he knew that he tried his best to be, however he was delirious with how you saw him. Not everyone would find him to be a diamond in a pile of cracked rocks, but here you were, always caressing his scars with care, and reminding him that he was allowed to be loved. A long, long time ago he wouldn’t have believed that he would have someone that stood by him through everything, let alone the silent battles ongoing in his mind. You had your own opinions, and you depicted them outright, always giving him time to himself when it was required, and as soon as there was a place to console him, putting yourself in it.

“Not fer tha’, for everythin’.” He thought of his life with you, and he could not have been more appreciative of it. It was never going to be perfect, you were both humans fighting to live in a world that wished to eradicate your species, but there were moments to be cherished when you were not trying to protect yourselves. Daryl wanted to kick himself for even attempting to protect himself from; it was foolish on his part, but you always managed to understand his mindset. That was one of the very many reasons as to why he loved you, and he could not voice it enough as he remained curled up with you, basking in the mortal emoting of the love that you held dearly for one another. He was aging, and he had hated it, but he despised it far less now that you had brought a light that only you could give to the natural process that was weaving through each of you, reminding him of the normality of it.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon fic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl smut #daryl x reader #daryl x female reader #daryl imagines #daryl x y/n #daryl x you #twd smut #twd one shot #twd x reader

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ohbo-ohno · 3 days ago

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unironically the best thing about writing fanfic is writing what YOU want. i read a sapphic romance with a butch who was not nearly butch enough for my tastes so i started working on a wip with a really butchy butch. i wanted something sweet with katniss discovering she's covey and was disappointed i couldn't find a fic like that and then i remembered.... i can just write it. 90% of the porn i write is just what i think is hot

truly i just write what i want to see more of, which is why i really just... cannot understand using ai to write fic. it's plagiarism, it's bad for the environment, but also the computer can't give you what you want. only YOU know what you want, and the computer can't read your mind to pick out all the little details you want to read. you can put in a million different wordings of the same prompt and you're never going to get exactly what you want. just pick up a pen and do it yourself

#anti ai #messy rant soooorryyyy

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oceane-rei · 2 days ago

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I don‘t trust our stove because it’s gas, I grew up with induction which is much quicker and more adjustable

Our fridge doesn’t have a thermostat and needs manual adjustment which causes my trust issues (I just set you to 3, why are you too warm again?)

There is no such thing as a trustworthy microwave, they always heat food unevenly

Kettle kinda gets close but lacks versatility

My coffee machine sometimes makes a bigger coffee than I tell it to if it’s the first coffee of the day

I don’t use the toaster enough to judge it but he‘s probably reliable in the same way a construction worker is reliable, he’ll do the job but no one knows after how many beer breaks

We just got a new used dishwasher and it’s a very good model but I haven’t used it yet since I’m not home for a few weeks so I can’t judge him

The airfryer once betrayed me when I tried to use it for reheating rather than the microwave so no thank you

And our deepfryer is very basic but very good but he also once made my fries too dark despite them only being in the beef grease for 3 minutes smh

The oven has enough different modes and I understand and use all of them for different purposes and it never disappoints. Oven my best friend even if you’re a bit old and need a really good cleaning someday.

tell me the appliance that is your best friend ever in the kitchen

#kitchen appliances #I love my coffee machine he’s my favorite but he can’t be trusted to do his job without supervision

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unbelenting · 17 hours ago

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queer, vampire obsessed Romanian FREAK watches Thirsty Vampires. 4847 injured 75 dead 🩸

lyrics from "Ferryman" by Shayfer James & Will Wood (text-free version and yapping below)

It's done!!! Waaah the only reason it took so long for me to make is bc I kept changing my plans lol. I was only gonna do flat colors... then minimal shading... then um. Yeah. So it's gone through a lot. But I definitely enjoyed looking at it while drawing. They're so ARRRGHHHHHH

This is my take on THE stars of Thirsty Vampires!! Esmeranna?? Is Anna just a fanon name? I've been obsessed since January and I still don't know.

ALSO! @notsoprivateartgalleryshush drew this scene as well (click on that link or I'll stake you) and they guessed what I was working on based on Esmeralda's sleeve & asked to be tagged in the finished piece. Here it is!!!<3 Hope it didn't disappoint! ^^

Also also. I need you to understand exactly how this scene is like all my interests colliding into one big bang. A few hours ago I finished drawing THIS for my anime art account(s) as my new pfp.

ANYWAY!!! thanks for reading AAGH back into my Angel cave I go.

#shoot from the hip #sfth fanart #thirsty vamps #thirsty vampires #i hate them!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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sturniololuvz · 2 days ago

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Can u write a fic where its like the triplets r on tour and sls went with them and she was missing nate and at the Boston show the boys suprised her with nate and his family but nate told her he couldn't go because of a work party or something so she was shocked

“Boston, With Love”

Tour had been amazing — lights, crowds, adrenaline.

But it was also exhausting. And for their little sister, tagging along as the only girl in a tour bus full of loud boys, it was starting to wear thin.

Especially without Nate.

He’d told her he had to skip the Boston stop — something about a work party he couldn’t get out of. And even though she tried to be understanding, the disappointment had clung to her like a shadow all week.

She missed him. Stupidly, deeply, in a way she couldn’t even fully explain to her brothers.

They tried. They made jokes. Bought her iced coffee when she looked extra tired. Let her sleep in the top bunk, even though Chris hated giving it up.

But she was still quieter than usual backstage before the Boston show.

“You good?” Nick asked, nudging her lightly as they waited behind the curtain.

“Yeah,” she lied.

Matt gave her a sideways glance, but didn’t push.

The crowd screamed. Lights went down. The boys ran out, hyped as always.

She watched from the wings, arms crossed, trying to shake the ache in her chest.

And then—

“Before we get to the next part,” Chris said into the mic, a little grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “we got a surprise for someone really special tonight.”

The crowd quieted, sensing something.

“She’s been on the road with us, putting up with all our annoying crap,” Matt added.

“And she’s been missing someone bad,” Nick said, smirking toward the side of the stage.

She blinked, confused. Then turned—

And froze.

Nate.

Standing there with his goofy grin, holding a bouquet of flowers. Her jaw dropped.

“You said you couldn’t come,” she whispered.

He laughed, stepping forward to wrap her up in a hug. “I lied.”

“You lied?”

“Matt made me. Blame him.”

She couldn’t even be mad. She threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking the flowers out of his hand.

On stage, the boys pointed and cheered. The crowd was eating it up.

“You didn’t actually think we’d come to Boston and not bring your favorite person, right?” Chris called out.

She buried her face in Nate’s shoulder, laughing and crying all at once.

It was loud. Overwhelming. But for the first time all week, her heart felt full again.

And later, when the show ended and she was tucked under Nate’s arm in the dressing room, she looked at her brothers with watery eyes.

“Thanks for knowing what I needed before I did.”

Chris shrugged. “It’s kind of our job.”

Nick grinned. “We’re like emotional support brothers.”

Matt just tossed her a water bottle. “Don’t ever say we don’t love you.”

She smiled, wiping her eyes.

“I know.”

⸻

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x you #matt stuniolo fanfic

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neocatharsis · 1 day ago

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250508 DOYOUNG Weverse Update

"Hello, everyone. How have you all been?

It’s been a while since I’ve written something this serious, so I started off with a rather stiff/formal greeting. hh

I’ve been debating whether the words I’m about to share are ones I should hold back, but after much thought and consideration, I realised I couldn’t stay silent, thinking of Czennies who might feel endlessly frustrated and upset if we didn’t address this.

I’m aware that various frustrations and disappointments have emerged in Czennies’ hearts recently.

What I say may not perfectly resolve all of your feelings, and I worry it might even deepen some of the disappointment. Still, after much deliberation, I hope you’ll take the time to read this message carefully.

I know many of you are feeling upset about the plans for 127 going forward. While it might sound like an excuse, we’ve been thinking about how we can navigate this period, even with the absence of some members, while still shaping 127 well.

Regarding the encore concert, which I believe is one of the things that has upset many the most, I wasn’t directly involved in the actual operations, but I do know that both the company and the members were eager to make it happen. We all put in our best efforts to make it possible.

Unfortunately, the situation ultimately didn’t allow it to happen, and while the result is disappointing, I feel it’s important not to overlook the efforts and thoughts that went into the process.

I’m not just saying, “Please acknowledge the efforts we made because we wanted to do it.” Instead, I want to emphasise that I don’t think we should avoid sensitive topics just because they are difficult. These are issues we hold dear, and I believe it’s important to have honest conversations about them with Czennies, who have shared their hearts with us for so long.

Not everything goes as desired, nor is it entirely out of reach. I think it’s time for us to embrace this new chapter by continuing to converse and share openly, building it together.

Also, one thing I want to state firmly is that none of the 127 members prioritises themselves over the team.

Everyone cherishes and loves the team deeply, so no one puts their personal desires ahead of what’s best for 127.

Over the past ten years, we’ve received so much as NCT 127, and we’ve been given so much love by Czennies. Knowing this, we understand we can’t act otherwise.

We’re thinking deeply about 127’s future this year and beyond. We’ll work hard to plan it well. Please believe in us.

Just as how 127 has held in there with the six members and Czennies while Taeyong hyung and Jaehyun are temporarily away, we’ll continue to be unwavering even if I or anyone else has to step away momentarily. I know you’re worried, but please believe in us.

Lastly, I hope you know that the biggest reason I’m writing this message is because of Czennies. When the company makes mistakes or causes disappointment, or when there are things 127 needs to correct and reflect on, we deserve the feedback and criticism, and we’ll have to fix them.

But thinking about Czennies being frustrated and heartbroken without any resolution is what makes me the saddest and most upset. I wrote this hoping it might ease your hearts even a little.

This has been a long message, but lastly, truly, I want to promise that 127 will strive to be a team that Czennies can trust, for as long as you support and love us, and even for the times you once loved us.

Thank you for reading.”

Translated by NCTDAOYlNG

#nct #nct 127 #doyoung

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endofthelinegang · 2 days ago

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“how don’t you know the difference between your left and right?” with Walker please, where reader and him have a sibling dynamic (both in the Thunderbolts, I love this team so much. Now I think I understand how fans felt about the Avengers, which I wasn’t into the MCU at the time)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem! platonic! reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ the f word

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ wait stop because even if you fucking hate john walker this is funny shit. (2.1k words)

The mission brief was simple.

Sneak in. Secure the drive. Sneak out.

It was a three-step process, like a microwave meal or an Instagram tutorial on microwave desserts, and somehow—somehow—you were still managing to screw it up by step two.

“Left,” John growled through your comms. “Take a left at the fork.”

Naturally, you put up your fingers but then quickly decided that would get you bullied so you took a guess and ended up going right.

“...That’s your other left,” came the follow-up, clipped and already filled with the bitter disappointment of a man who knows better than to expect anything else from you.

You stopped mid-step. The hallway lights overhead were flickering dramatically—broken bulbs, unstable wiring—and in any other context, this might’ve been a suspenseful moment. Tactical. High-stakes. Because it was clear whatever danger was dangering had just been through here or was still right in that general area.

Instead, you blinked. “There’s no such thing as ‘other left.’” you scoffed and stood rolling your eyes.

“Yes there is,” John hissed. “It’s called right.” The mission had only started moments ago and he was ready to come down there and shoot you himself.

You tilted your head, hand on your hip. “That’s a label society assigned. Much like gender and sporks. Though the idea of a spork is a lot more useful than the other labels, it’s a really fun word to say too.” Before you could repeat the word spork and somehow mindlessly start walking down the trail that screamed danger John made a comment,

“God, I knew I should’ve left you in the van.”

“Joke’s on you,” you replied cheerfully. “I hotwired the van. You couldn’t leave me even if you wanted to.” There was a reason he kept you around, all of your illegal knowledge that you felt overly confident doing and sharing. In fact you would even show John Tiktoks and Reels of all the people your age putting it all over their public social media platforms. To which he was not surprised that half of the New York population happened to be these people.

A pause. A deep, deep inhale on his end.

And then, voice flat: “Turn. The hell. Around.” You sighed dramatically, like this was somehow his fault, and began rotating yourself in slow, half-conscious steps like a Sims character that couldn’t find a free tile.

And, because you knew it would drive him completely feral, you whispered into the mic: “...Which one’s left again?” You smiled at yourself turning back around and jogging out of the area he specifically kept telling you to get out of and stay out of.

You could feel the eye twitch through the comms.

“Left is the side with your watch on it,” John said, enunciating each word like you were a foreign dignitary he hated but had to be polite to. “The same watch you said made you ‘feel like a spy, but slutty.’ Remember that?”

“I do. I also stand by that.” As much as he pretended to ignore you all the time he did recall everything you said. In all fairness the watch was completely blacked out with a leather band.

“Great. So use your slutty spy watch to figure out which direction to go before I come down there and push you out a window.” John would’ve said something more violent but that would have started an actual argument.

You gasped. “You said you weren’t gonna use your military strength on me!” You continued to walk back where you had started, you also realized John was kind of a total dumbass because there was like one window and it had bars over it.

“I lied.” And with that, you finally—finally—pivoted the correct direction and continued down the left hallway like a reluctant Sims character with one trait point in Navigation and zero in Listening.

—

You met up with him two corridors later. You were lightly jogging, in fact almost skipping, and you might be wondering where this good mood was coming from. Nothing was better than a mission with just John because at the end of the day you could save your own ass you did not need him there. But messing with him, yeah, you needed that. He was already standing by the server room door, arms crossed, jaw tight, the image of Grumpy Soldier Barbie—but in your defense, he looked like that all the time.

“You’re late,” he sassed looking you up and down.

You rolled your eyes. “Relax. I was out here doing recon.”

“You got lost.” He whisper-yelled, not appreciating the very idea that you thought anything you had done was recon.

“Reconnaissance of the floor plan,” you said smoothly, brushing past him with your hand on the panel. “Maybe if your directions were better—”

“They were good directions. They were literally left. That’s it. That’s not even complicated. It’s not like I said ‘head northwest by the air shaft and look for the door with the red laser grid.’” He repeated real instructions from a previous mission he had gone on with Yelena. Instructions she also chose to ignore.

“That sounds kinda fun actually.” You had no idea what he was talking about.

“You are not allowed to speak anymore.”

He had the two of you on the move. The server room opened with a quiet click. You ducked in, he followed close behind, and for about thirty blessed seconds, things were normal. Professional. Efficient. Until you spotted the wires. John of course had you closest to the wires so that if you pulled the wrong one it would be your fuck up and not his.

“Uhhh…” you said, hands hovering over the motherboard. “Which cord do I pull?” The board was a mess, yes there was green but all of the wires were so small.

John looked up from the small device he was planting in the far corner. “Green.”

You stared at the wires even closer, there were three different greens. There were different shades of every color and all of the greens were super far apart from each other which meant that they all probably did different things.

“...Green which?” you asked, hands hovering over top of the crazy mess in front of you.

He looked over. Blinked. And then, with the slow patience of a father of four who just caught one of his kids trying to microwave foil, he moved you over, pointed directly at the correct green wire, and said—

“This green. Right here. Not seafoam. Not olive. Green.”

You nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

And then, because apparently you were put on this earth to test his willpower, you reached for the wrong one. Not slowly either you grabbed that motherfucker like you were really going to pull it up and out.

“Nope!” he barked, grabbing your wrist before you could trigger an accidental building-wide meltdown. “Do you have some kind of death wish, or are you just genetically incapable of behaving?”

“I don’t respond well to being micromanaged,” you sniffed and pouted. He gave you the look—that devastating combo of older-brother exhaustion and someone who once had dreams before you happened to him.

“You know,” he said, voice low and tight, “I’ve had missions go off the rails before. I’ve had teammates flake. I’ve had intel turn out bad. But nothing—nothing—has ever compared to trying to get you to do something simple.”

You tilted your head sweetly. “That’s just because you’re not used to working with people as unique as me.” You held his hands and swung them back and forth before getting up as he watched you in plain horror.

“Unique,” he repeated, dead-eyed. “Is that what we’re calling this now?”

You grinned. “You love me.”

“I’d trade you for a ham sandwich.” He scoffed and started walking away from you to which you got right behind him and yelled in his ear,

“A ham sandwich?” you repeated, mock-offended. “That’s so basic. At least make it like… a fancy club sandwich or something.”

He gave a long sigh, eyes skyward like he was praying for strength. “Do the job, dumbass.”

—

The escape route—because of course—was also somehow your fault. It started fine. Quiet hallway, clear egress, no hostiles in sight. The corridors were low-lit, industrial concrete with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and peeling paint on the corners. You could hear the hum of distant generators, the faint tick of your watch, and the crunch of your boots on loose debris.

John’s plan had been tight. Simple extraction. The van was parked in an alley on the north side, GPS-tracked and synced to the route in your earpiece. Cameras had been looped, alarms temporarily frozen, and all you had to do—all you had to do—was follow him and not get distracted.

Until you stopped at the final turn and muttered, “Wait, I thought the exit was that way,” and pointed the wrong direction again.

He didn’t even look. He just kept walking. “Don’t you start.”

“No, but I really thought it was—”

“Left. I said left again. For the third time.”

“And again, I ask: my left, or yours?”

“HOW IS THAT A REAL QUESTION.”

“BECAUSE I’M WALKING BEHIND YOU. PERSPECTIVES CHANGE.”

He whipped around to face you mid-step, face flushed, hair slightly mussed, entire being radiating the energy of a babysitter who was about ten seconds from calling your mom.

“I’m going to ask you one time,” he said, slowly. “And I want you to really think about this before you answer.”

You saluted. “Aye aye, Captain America-lite.”

He visibly had to restrain himself from launching you into orbit.

“How—don’t—you know—the difference—between your left—and your right?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Thought for a second.

And then said, earnestly:

“It’s conceptual.”

John looked like he aged four years in real time.

“...Conceptual.”

“Yeah. Like, I get it in theory. But in practice? I just vibe.”

“You just vibe? This is tactical infiltration, not yoga.”

“Exactly. You gotta feel the space.”

“I swear to God,” he muttered, turning back toward the exit, “if you make me do paperwork on your death certificate I’m writing vibes as the cause of death.”

—

You made it back to the van, somehow.

Your boots hit pavement with a final, glorious crunch, and the cold night air slapped your face like a wake-up call from God Himself. The alley was still empty, shadows long and stretched under the flickering glow of a busted streetlamp that buzzed like it was shorting out on its final life. The mission had drained just enough energy from you that you were too tired to celebrate but not too tired to be smug. That perfect, post-chaos middle ground.

You both clambered into the van—the familiar creak of the door, the satisfying thunk as it shut behind you. John wordlessly dropped into the driver's seat, hands on the wheel but not starting it yet, like he needed a minute to recover from whatever the hell just happened.

There was a brief moment of quiet where you both sat there, the adrenaline fading, the mission technically complete. The drive buzzed in your pack. The radio hummed.

A random pop station played something way too upbeat for the mood. A pigeon flew overhead and nearly dive-bombed the van’s windshield for no reason except to keep you humble.

And then—

“So…” you said, angling toward him with a smug smile. “We gonna talk about the fact that despite all my ‘distractions,’ we still got out clean?”

He didn’t even look up. “Luck.”

“Skill.”

“Luck.”

You poked his bicep, still smug. “Admit it. You like having me around.”

He gave you a long, baleful stare. “You make my blood pressure rise like a balloon animal in a microwave.”

“But a fun balloon animal,” you said brightly. “Like, the dog kind.”

He closed his eyes. Whispered a quiet, resigned, “Why me.”

You beamed, settling back into your seat, feet up on the dash.

He didn’t make you move them.

And later, when you both walked into the safehouse and he saw you take the couch first, he didn’t say anything. He tossed you a water bottle. Turned on the shitty hotel TV. Sat down next to you like it was nothing.

The safehouse smelled like dusty air filters and microwave popcorn someone had definitely burned earlier in the week. The couch was too firm, the lighting was too yellow, and the remote had teeth marks in it—unclear if human. It was perfect. It was home—for now.

But when you turned the wrong direction again—again—to hand him the remote?

He just caught it mid-air, muttering, “Still your wrong left, dumbass.”

You grinned. “Still made the shot though.”

“Unfortunately.”

And that was it.

That was how John Walker—ex-Captain America, Thunderbolt, grumpy golden retriever in combat boots—ended another day stuck with you. His teammate. His human migraine.

His family.

Even if it killed him slowly.

Even if you never learned your left from your right.

Even if you made “conceptual directions” your new excuse for everything.

You, him, and the mission.

That was the job. That was the team. And, God help him, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

#john walker x fem! reader #john walker x you #john walker x reader #john walker imagine #john walker #thunderbolts x you #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts

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santae-salt · 17 hours ago

Note

CJ, salties, genuine and troll commenters - we need to have a discussion about emotional boundaries and emotional manipulation.

What CJ did last night was highly unprofessional and unacceptable for someone fostering minors in his community. I think it's sobering to remember that individuals as young as 13 years old can freely join and play. They could be in the discord. They could have witnessed whatever that was last night and it could impact them negatively. It is highly inappropriate to trauma dump in his discord as an owner; I understand that he feel victimized and it's valid to feel feelings, I'm not telling him that he can't, but CJ as the responsible adult need to understand that he shouldn't use his pet site audience as his dumping ground. I understand that this may frustrate and piss him off, but he needs to understand the gravity of being the owner of Santae.

I also understand it may frustrate him that I'm not placing any share of the blame on the parties that he views as attackers. This isn't what I'm talking about right now, so I'm not touching on that. That's all.

CJ, to address you directly - you are not a regular player just like "all of you". You are a developer. You hold a certain power by that title alone that, when you act like you did last night, can be classified as emotional manipulation. By bringing your significant other into the conversation, how horrible you feel, how bullied you are - it gives the idea that you are actively searching for 1) immediate sympathy and 2) people to defend you. You overstepped a massive, and concerning, boundary last night. I'll keep repeating it because of how strongly I feel about it.

You may not mean for this, and I'm not making fun of you or attacking you for saying this. I want to make that clear. You need someone unbiased who doesn't know you personally to talk to, like an actual therapist or another outside completely unrelated source. Talking to anyone close to Santae (or you) results in an echo chamber that spirals and revolves and wraps you up in stress. There's no separation and that's hard for anyone's mental health. Users aren't there to buffer your feelings. They're there to be users.

And for what it's worth, this unprofessionalism has been a concern since Santae has first kicked off. If you search the Santae tag on Tumblr and read some of the comments on the older posts regarding issues (the ID request, artist issues, etc) you'll see people expressing their concern about the development team not being able to maintain boundaries.

One example: you sent an email when you blocked someone that was wholly inappropriate and should be addressed, quite frankly. You didn't maintain the boundary of just banning the user and blocking them like an adult who owns a pet site, you had to stoop down into your wounded feelings and wield that power one more time to try and harm them the way that you felt harmed. You're mixing your personal feelings with professional actions and this will not assure the longevity of Santae. At all.

"To take words and share them publicly, stripped of context and trust like everyone else chooses to do. For what, we may never understand what happiness or joy you and a select group choose to speak in a bad way on any topic without telling the entire story. is not only deeply disappointing, but also a violation of the standards we expect every member to uphold."

This is absolutely emotional manipulation, an egregious crossing of boundaries re: owner vs user, and just unacceptable. Santae is close to you, but an attack on Santae shouldn't be an attack on you. CJ and Santae are two different entities. It's troubling that you and Santae seemed so tightly intertwined that you can no longer tell the difference.

This has gone on long enough, so I'll wrap it up here. Fwiw, I hope your s/o feels better, genuinely. I really do hope you take this as a genuine conversation of concern.

I hope you figure it out man. Yeah, it sucks. But that's part of being at the top. It's gonna suck, but you have to hold onto the positive and try to figure out the change it's going to take to get yourself in a better headspace.

☁️

#santaesalt #staffsalt #sancord #very real thank you anon

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pandora-writes-one-piece · 1 day ago

Text

The Meet-Cute - Kid's Story - 8

Source for pic

Imperfect 8

Word Count: 4802

Tags and Summary can be found here.

Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.

Notes: I'm so eager to share this chapter with all of you that I may be making a mistake by uploading it early! I only have half of chapter 9 written, and I was hoping to write a little bit more before posting this. But, hey, I'll do it! *singing* Besides, which you see, I have confidence in me!! Anyway, please enjoy the emotional whiplash you're about to experience with this chapter. Love you all! Small Warning: suggestive content, I don't think it warrants a specific NSFW, though.

Here's a Spotify Playlist I created for this story if you want to check it out!

Masterlist

You get a text from your dad saying he’ll be out for the day helping Makino’s niece assemble furniture at her new home in town, and that he might not return until dinnertime. He also asks if you’re alright and lets you know that morning chores are already taken care of.

Looking at the clothes you’re currently wearing - Kid’s - it’s actually a blessing he’s not home at the moment, or you’d have some explaining to do.

The rest of the day goes by in the blink of an eye, and around five o’clock you stop by Sanji’s café to buy some donuts and coffee, not wanting to show up at the garage empty-handed. You can’t contain the tingle of anticipation or stop the silly smile from curving your lips when your car comes to a full stop in front of Kid’s shop.

“Heeey, I brought sustenance!” you shout as you step into the garage. Your brow rises, and you set your stuff down on the nearest workbench before heading further inside. It’s all so quiet. No music, no curses, no tools rumbling in the background.

And then you see him.

Kid is hunched over another workbench. His prosthetic lies discarded in front of him, and he’s gripping the edge of the counter as if it’s all that’s keeping him from falling. Sweat dampens the collar of his shirt. His hair is soaked, and fat droplets of perspiration drip down his scrunched brows and heavy grimace. Everything in his posture, including the tautness of his muscles, screams pain and suffering.

And it’s one you know and understand very well: phantom pain.

“Kid,” you start, one hand raised as if you were approaching a wild animal.

“Don’t,” he growls the word, and it hits you like a slap. He doesn’t even turn or open his eyes to acknowledge you. It’s like you can physically see the walls going up and all around him. Again.

“Let me help–”

“Get the fuck out. I don’t need ya.” The poison in his words sucks all the breath out of your lungs. He’s lashing out.

“I can–”

His face snaps towards you, a feral growl shaking his lips as he grits his teeth. “No, you can’t! This ain’t a fucking novel, sweetheart. I ain’t some broken project for ye to fix! Ye can’t fix what’s irreparably broken! Get the fuck out.”

You try to swallow past the giant lump in your throat. His eyes are cold as ice, without a hint or a trace of the warmth he showed you in the morning. This is just another hurdle that you have to overcome.

You want to succumb to the prickling of tears behind your eyes, but you can’t, because weakness won’t get you anywhere with Eustass Kid. He’s trying to scare you away.

He’s not going to fucking do it.

“I’m not trying to fix you!”

“Bullshit!” Kid slams the workbench, and everything rattles with his fury. “Ye think just because we shared some nice moments, I’m suddenly fixed? That I ain’t fucked up? Broken? That we can have a fuckin’ happily ever after with birds singin’ and butterflies dancin’ kinda shit? It don’t work like that!”

“That’s not what I was–”

“Yer not the first pretty face that thinks she can fix me! And ye ain’t gonna be the last.” Kid snorts, and you bite your lower lip to stop it from trembling. “Guess what, sweetheart? Yer about to be just as disappointed as all of ‘em. Ye ain’t special!”

That blow stings like a cut in your chest. You take a trembling step back, averting his cold gaze, and shake your head. “Earlier–”

“Earlier meant nothin’!” His voice doesn’t even waver. “It was just a distraction, and yer a pretty distraction, I give ye that. But it ain’t happenin’ again. I don’t need this - I don’t need ye.”

The silence that follows is crushing.

You finally look back at him, your chest heaving and chin trembling, eyes glazed with unshed tears you’re trying so hard to push back. You’re so angry at him. Rationally, you know he’s pushing you away again, too afraid to be vulnerable, too afraid to reach for help. Irrationally, though, it feels like you’re not enough.

And like you’ll never be able to reach him.

And then you see his eyes tremble, his teeth grit, and his muscles contract in torment. He’s drowning in pain, no matter how hard he’s trying to hide it.

Raising your chin and fighting every instinct that tells you to turn around and leave, you walk past him. Then you fight another instinct telling you to throw a wrench at his stupid, stubborn head, grab the first aid kit, and take out the muscle relaxer cream, throwing it on the couch carelessly.

“Sit on that fucking couch, Kid.” Good. At least your voice still sounds steady.

“Didn’t ya listen to–”

“I don’t give a fuck. Sit. Down.” Your eyes harden like steel as you bore them into his.

“I don’t want ye here,” his throat bobs, and you can tell that’s a blatant lie. One he’s willing to lash out for, over and over again, even if it makes you both bleed.

“Tough shit!” you grit your teeth and shove him towards the couch. “I’m not leaving! You’re hurting, and I’m not going to turn my back on that. I’m not running away, Kid. You don’t scare me!” You shove him again, and he stumbles back, probably too stunned or in pain to fight back your advances. “It doesn’t mean I’m not fucking devastated by what you just said. I’m pissed and I’m hurt, but I’m not running away. Now sit the fuck down.”

He reluctantly sits, still unsure about what you’re going to do. When you sit next to him and start rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he jerks his stump away from you.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

“Kid—” You reach again and he pulls away with more force than before.

“I said don’t! Yer not seein’ this part of me, for fuck’s sake! I ain’t yer charity case.”

God! Why is he so infuriating? Why can’t he just give you a chance? A small opening? Something!

“I never said you were! I just want to help! Let me—”

“Don’t touch me!” He’s not yelling, but it feels pretty damn close. The intensity of his words forms more lumps and clumps in your throat, and your breathing comes out in ragged, hurtful gasps.

At least your tears are still safely tucked away.

You grit your teeth and will some command into your voice. “I will fucking touch you because it will help.”

“It won’t help!”

“You don’t know that!”

“I do! It never fuckin’ goes away! It’s here to remind me of how I failed ‘em! Fuck!” Kid drops his elbow to his knee, face buried in his hand. His shoulders contract and twist in agony, his whole body coiled in grief.

Silence spreads its tendrils around you again, sinking its claws into your chest, reminding you that Kid is indeed as broken as he claims to be. And that only makes you care for him more.

“Fine. Maybe it won’t go away, but I know I can make it better. And I’ll stay with you through the worst of it. Even if you continue to be an asshole.”

You don’t wait for a reaction, don’t even allow him to reply. You just roll the rest of the sleeve up and get straight to work. Lathering your hands with the muscle relaxer, you start to massage the stump slowly, yet firmly. Your muscle memory is kicking in and reminding you how you used to do this for your dad, all those years ago.

Kid flinches when your fingers touch the scarred tissue, and he looks away, seemingly too embarrassed for eye contact. But you don’t miss the way he lets out a deep breath after a minute or two. His shoulders sag softly, and his brows relax from the everlasting scrunch he has them in.

You keep working the knots slowly, ignoring the way your feet are already becoming numb because you’re sitting on them. You’re too afraid to break this fragile moment.

Kid drops his head back to rest on the couch, and his breathing evens out. You don’t think he’s sleeping, but at least he’s relaxed enough for a small reprieve. Your fingers tremble for a small moment, your breath catching in your throat.

Before you realize or manage to stop it, tears start spilling down your cheeks. Just when you thought you’d made progress, that you managed to break down those stubborn walls of his, he pulls this stunt.

His words hurt much more than you care to admit. Of course you’re not special. Why would you be? But that’s not even the point, you don’t have to be special, you just want him to let you in. To open himself to the possibility of something else. To let someone care for him, to allow himself to be cherished.

It’s like you take one small step forward and two back. A never-ending, frustrating dance.

It’s only when you feel his calloused hand on your cheek, wiping the trail your tears left behind, that you realize Kid’s eyes are open and he’s staring at you. Trembling, you stop massaging him, waiting for another outburst of hurtful words.

It never comes.

He softens his gaze, working his throat and jaw as if he’s trying to free the unspoken words he has trapped there. His mouth finally parts, like he’s about to say something, but you beat him to it.

You don’t want to hear the wrong words now.

“Take off your shirt.”

His brow furrows, and he removes his hand from your cheek, leaving only cold and emptiness behind.

“I need to work on your back and chest muscles, or the pain won’t go away. Take it off.” You lace your words with indifference and command, and he obeys for once; doesn’t argue or grunt in disapproval, just follows your request.

As he’s busy taking the garment off, you swiftly wipe your wet cheeks on your arms, erasing any evidence of your earlier weakness.

You make him turn slightly to the side as you start working between his shoulder blades and neck. He’s stiff as a board, his muscles tight and tense from too many years of holding everything in his shoulders. No wonder the pain won’t ever go away.

After a long stretch of silence, where the only sound comes from his soft, relieved grunts, Kid speaks in a voice so quiet you have trouble believing it’s his. “How d’ya learn how to do this?”

You pause for a breath, then answer. Your eyes never leave the junction of his neck with his shoulder, applying soothing pressure with the pads of your fingers. “Shanks.” Kid hums, and you continue.

“I was just a child when he lost his arm, around ten, I think. Luffy, our neighbor, had a habit of sneaking out of his grandpa’s house, and he would get into all sorts of trouble. This time it could’ve been fatal. Except my dad was there.”

You sigh. There’s much you don’t remember about your childhood, but you clearly remember the day your father was left bleeding out in the field while the ambulance was on the way. Your tiny heart beating out of your chest, not knowing if he’d make it or not…

“The plough was working in the field, and Luffy got in the way. Dad saw it and jumped in to save him. Lost his arm in the process. He used to have phantom pain all the time back then. Mom used to do this to ease him through it, and it worked.”

Kid hums again, so you know he’s listening.

“When they started to fight like they had nothing better to do with every waking moment of their lives, Dad was too proud to ask for help, and Mom got tired of offering. I could see him trying to suffer through the pain with gritted teeth and venomous words.”

Kid stiffens, and you know he’s relating to that bit a little too much.

“So I took over Mom’s place and learned how to help. It became our own thing.”

You move a bit, leaning closer and pushing his back against the couch, focusing on the planes of his chest now, where the scarring is so visible and the scar tissue is pulled so tight, it’s a wonder he’s not in pain all the time.

You can feel Kid’s gaze burning holes into your face, and you would give anything to know what’s on his mind. If he would just let you.

Your thumbs work slowly, kneading the flesh carefully but with firm strokes. You can already feel how much less tense he is.

His question catches you by surprise. “Don’t ye find it disgustin’?”

You stop and stare at him, but he avoids your gaze like the plague, his lips twitching and frowning into an embarrassed grimace.

“Why would I? It’s part of you. It’s just flesh, muscle, and skin. It’s not disgusting.”

Kid tilts his head slowly, catching your eye for a moment before turning away again. You continue massaging his chest until he speaks again.

“Ye should. I’m a fuckin’ monster.”

Somehow, you realize he’s not just talking about his physical scars.

“Stop,” you state with finality. Reaching for his face, you force him to face you. “You’re not a monster. You’re not this ugly, unlovable creature. You’re Eustass fucking Kid.” That draws a small smirk from his lips, but it barely lasts. “You’re just… wounded.”

“I’m broken…” he rasps out, the shadows in his eyes spreading further, dimming its brightness.

“Yes, you are.” He jerks his face away, but you hold it steady, forcing your gaze into his. “And I want all of those broken pieces. The anger, the sadness, the pain, and all of the things you don’t tell me… Kid, I’ll take it all and share that burden with you. I don’t want perfect. I want you.”

He stares at you, his chest shaking with uncertain breaths, looking torn between wanting to push you away and to hold you against him.

It’s a make-or-break moment, you can feel it.

So when he presses his hand against your cheek in a mimicry of his earlier gesture, you let out a relieved breath.

“I don’t know how to be anythin’ else. I don’t know how to be… good.”

You cover his hand with your own, while you lower the other one until it presses against his heart, feeling it beat erratically, madly.

“Then we’ll learn together. You just have to let me in, Kid. That’s all.”

Kid’s gaze burns. He looks torn, restless, like he’s fighting a war he’s tired of losing. Maybe this time, though, he has too much to lose and he’s finally willing to risk it.

You know you are.

With a tentative breath, Kid’s hand finds the curve of your neck and climbs until his fingers curl in your hair. He leans forward, hesitates, and the world stops. He’s gonna pull away. He’s gonna flee again. I’m gonna lose him—

Then he exhales a trembling breath, pulls you gently and presses his lips against yours. It’s a stark contrast to all the other heated kisses you’ve shared. This one feels fragile and precious, just a whisper of a touch.

It’s everything he can’t seem to say to you.

When he breaks the kiss and pulls you gently to his lap until you’re straddling him, his hand stays on your hip, its slight tremble, reminding you how delicate this moment is. You cup his face, and he closes his eyes, your foreheads touching for a moment while the weight of everything settles between the two of you.

When his eyes meet yours again, it’s like you can see a crack in his walls. It’s slight. It’s small. But it’s there.

“I didn’t mean…” he starts, stumbling over his words, brows scrunched so tight you fear they’ll leave permanent marks. “My words, I… fuckin’ hell.”

“Kid—”

“No. Let me get this out.” Kid sighs heavily, his hand gripping your hip harder and harder, his eyes still avoiding yours. “Ye are special. Ye are!”

A choked sob dares to climb its way up your throat, so you steel your emotions, bite your lower lip to stop its trembling, and caress his cheekbones with your thumbs in a comforting gesture.

“Much more than that, I…” It’s painfully clear how much he’s struggling to share the extent of his feelings. His eyes meet yours, and there’s so much emotion in them that you understand all he wants to tell you, even without words.

He really likes you.

And it’s scary as hell.

“Fuck it,” Kid mumbles, then his mouth claims yours again, and this kiss is a far cry from the tentative one you shared before. It’s all-consuming, it’s raging, it’s fire and desire melting into something hot and unbearable.

Kid’s hand slithers below your top and up your spine, eliciting a shudder and a muffled whimper. You respond by rolling your hips against his hardened length, and my God, this just needs to happen. Your hands greedily map the planes of his pecs, scraping your nails hard across the same spot you had been massaging just moments ago.

Your top comes off, your bra comes next, and so does an unwanted thought: you’ve been here before.

Except this time, you don’t let any doubt cloud your judgment. Yes, you’ve been here before, but never has the intimacy felt so raw and vulnerable. This is it.

Your lips collide again, and as you open your mouth to gasp when Kid rolls his fingers over your nipple, he claims your tongue. Your heart and soul go next, and you don’t even fight it.

You’re his.

You’ll always be his. If he lets you.

“I want ye… fuck! I need ye,” Kid drawls between kisses and licks to your neck.

“Then take me.”

And he’s about to. Kid’s fingers trail the waistband of your pants, hover over the button, and—

“AGAIN?” Killer’s outraged scream reverberates off the wall and bounces in an endless, indignant echo. Kid pushes you flush against his chest to shield your breasts from view. “I can’t believe I have to see this again!”

Killer’s stomping footfalls thud around the garage in an angry tirade, and a bottle of pills hits Kid on the head. He growls, but Killer is on a rampage.

“Here are your fucking pills! The ones you were in too much pain to grab! Forgot to ask for condoms too? Fucking shitwipe, there are locks on—” Killer’s angry gaze lingers on the spot you’re both on as he approaches.

Why is he approaching? Has he gone mad?

“That is a fucking communal couch. I take naps there, goddamn it! I’m gonna have to bleach the whole fucking thing!” An exasperated growl escapes his lips as he stomps past you towards the office. “Maybe I should just bleach my own eyes while I’m at it!”

The office door slams shut, and you and Kid sit in silence for a beat, too stunned to say anything at all.

Then Killer opens the door again, hands pressed together as if in prayer against his bandana-covered mouth. “I’m sincerely fucking happy this—” he gestures towards you, “—is happening. But for fuck’s sake and Jesus’ balls, take it somewhere else! You fucking live upstairs, you moron!”

The door bangs shut again, only to fly open a microsecond later. Killer looks at you and tilts his head. “I ain’t mad at you, love. Just at the fucking asshole who can’t keep it in his pants. Now, if you both could kindly take that elsewhere so I can fix the car Kid towed earlier, I’d appreciate it very much.”

When the door bangs shut again, it nearly comes off its hinges. You can’t help but feel bad for Killer. He really didn’t need to see this. Still, the hilarity of the situation makes you muffle your laughs against Kid’s neck, in an almost perfect replay of what happened once before.

Even Kid’s lip quirks into a small smile. “Fuck’s sake… that FUCKIN’ HYPOCRITE should keep his fuckin’ mouth shut! HE’S MADE OUT A MILLION TIMES on this couch before, so he—”

“NEVER WITHOUT CLOTHES ON!” Killer bangs his hands on the inside of the office door, and you keep giggling. “I SWEAR TO GOD, KID! If I sit my ass on something sticky or disgusting on that couch… I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

“CALM YER TITS, DIPSHIT! Nothin’ happened!”

“I’M GONNA BURN THAT FUCKING COUCH!”

“THEN YE BUY A NEW ONE!”

“YOU’LL JUST DEFILE IT AGAIN!”

Laughter booms from your lips as you can’t hold it in anymore. The moment is long gone, but you can’t even be mad about it. Kid stops yelling at Killer and hands you your bra and shirt. When you’re fully dressed, his hand lingers on your hip, his thumb brushing soft strokes across your skin.

“We can go upstairs… if yer still up for it.”

Hell yeah, you are.

You’re about to reply with a teasing comment, but then you notice the slight sheen of sweat on Kid’s forehead. His neck is tense with pressure, and his stump twitches now and then.

“You’re still in pain, Kid.”

You rise slowly, pick up the bottle of pills Killer brought, take two out, and place them in Kid’s hand, despite his barely-there objections.

“Take the pills. Rest. We’ve got plenty of time.”

At least, you hope you do. It’s a feeling you hate, but unfortunately, one you’ve experienced more times than you’d like to admit when it comes to Kid. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach, always accompanied by a massive wave of doubt.

Every time you walk away from a charged moment - whether sparked by desire or something far more vulnerable - you leave your heart in Kid’s hands. So far, you’ve come out the other end bruised, battered, but not defeated.

But this time feels different. So maybe walking away is the right step.

Kid reaches for the water bottle you retrieve from the fridge, but instead of taking it, he wraps his hand around your wrist and tugs you gently until you tumble onto his lap with a soft chuckle.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want ye to leave.” Kid’s warm breath tingles your neck as he leans in to whisper those words to you.

It’s all the reassurance you need.

But he still gives you more. Kid presses his lips beneath your earlobe, then along your jaw, and finally at the corner of your mouth, until you sigh, and he drinks it in like oxygen to a dying man.

You’re glad his hand stays steady on your lower back, because without it, you’re sure you’d melt straight into the couch. There’s no strength left in any limb of your body.

The kiss ends abruptly when he pulls back with a groan, muscles tightening. Your gaze softens, and you massage his stump for a few minutes while he takes the pills and downs them with water.

“The pills and lotion will kick in soon. Go to bed and rest, Kid. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

God, you don’t want to leave him.

But you know he needs rest. And the worst is definitely over; he’s no longer at war with himself, no longer trapped in a maze of self-loathing and doubt. He just needs time and sleep to recover.

Which won’t happen if you stay.

After a few more stolen touches, he lets you go, and you drag yourself away from him, somehow feeling lighter than when you walked in. The events took a turn you weren’t expecting, and even though they were painful and pushed both your limits, you can’t help but feel like barriers were overcome and walls were demolished.

Now it’s time to rebuild. One step at a time.

-*-

“Is it safe?” Killer opens the office door and comes out with his bandana tied over his eyes instead of just his mouth.

Kid can’t help a disgruntled, although bemused, sound escape his lips. He’s reclining on the couch, his arm draped over his eyes, muscles taut, and eyes scrunched. The pain has ebbed from fucking unbearable to moderate.

And he has you to thank for it.

You, whom he insulted, pushed, and harmed with venomous words; you who took them with a raised chin and open defiance; you who poured your kindness, your goodness, and your warmth into him - someone so undeserving it should’ve driven you away immediately.

You, whom he definitely cares more for than he should; you, who he cannot relinquish; you, who will be his downfall.

No. Lies.

He’s sure he will be your downfall.

“How are you feeling, man? You were down in the dumps when you called. I could hear the strain in your voice.” Killer sits on the couch next to him, grimaces, and gags loudly before getting up and sitting on a stool instead.

“The couch is clean, dumbass. We were just…”

“Making out like horny teenagers? Yeah, I saw. Oh, was that what happened? You were dying from pain, and she was performing CPR on your dying ass?”

Kid chuckles again. Dumbass Killer, always trying to lighten the mood and alleviate the tension.

“I fuckin’ care for her, Kill.” Kid can’t face him, not yet.

“Well, duh! Haven’t we cleared that already? Because it was pretty damn clear when you returned from the beach date—”

“Not a date!”

“—With lovey-dovey eyes, swooning like a girl—”

“The fuck, man?” Kid finally lifts his arm to stare directly into Killer’s amused expression.

“You more than care for her. And it’s alright to admit it. It’s not like your other arm’s going to fall off because of it.” Killer ducks when Kid throws him a wrench that was wedged between the couch and the arm of the couch. “Missed.”

Kid’s arm returns to act as a shield over his face as he lets out another groan.

“I’m sorry I interrupted you again. In my defense, I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to leave the door unlocked a second time, plus I really thought I was going to find you incapacitated.”

“It’s fine,” Kid slurs. The pills are starting to kick in, finally. He was close to resorting to more booze. “I… we better slow down, anyway. I ain’t aiming to do somethin’ stupid, so I gotta do things right.”

He sighs and shakes his head. It’s so fucking hard to expose what he feels, to just get it out there. Why the fuck is it so fucking hard? With Killer, he can be truthful, he knows that, but still…

“That’s… actually wise,” Killer interjects with surprise. “Maybe my interrupting you was divine intervention.”

The bemusement in his tone is clear, but Kid can’t share the sentiment.

“I stopped believin’ in divine anythin’ a long time ago, Kill. I ain’t about to start now…”

Killer slumps in his stool, his back hitting the workbench where he supports himself with his elbows. His eyes fall to the corner where Kid keeps the army photograph. It’s already tucked behind an oil can, forgotten again, like it never saw the light to begin with.

“They wouldn’t want—”

“I know what they want, Kill. I hear ’em. Every fuckin’ second of every fuckin’ day!” Kid gets up, his head feels light from the pills, and he really should take your advice and rest. But they are always there, he’s not lying about that. And their appearances always hurt the most once he starts enjoying himself, once he starts to believe he can be happy.

“They’re always blamin’ me, they’re always laughin’ at me! I know I fuckin’ failed ’em and I need to suffer for it! FUCK!” Kid kicks the couch and grunts in agony, but he welcomes the pain again. The one in his arm is already numbing, and he doesn’t exactly deserve a reprieve.

Killer rises, too, trying to placate his anger. “Come on, Kid, you know they would never do that. They would’ve forgiven you… They have.”

Kid swallows his anger and his pain alongside the rock-sized lump that suddenly forms in his throat. He doesn’t push it further. Killer wouldn’t understand.

“Aye. Whatever. I’m gonna lie down.”

He’s already stomping up the steps to his apartment, not giving Killer a chance to add anything else to this pity party. Killer wouldn’t understand, but it’s not because he didn’t know them or wasn’t there; it’s because they’re his ghosts to bear, and Kid is the one to blame for their untimely deaths.

Tags: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @elysian-asphodel @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000 @chibinasuu @my-name-is-heartache @laidenbreecatchall @moldychefboyardeecan @dazzlingstarlight23 @bearg-bia @babyboofangirl @praline357 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @traffys-heart @cherileecore @violetmatcha @theloserqueen @mapachito @shamblespirate @ibuch7

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#eustass kid x reader #eustass captain kid #eustass x reader #eustass kid #reader insert #kid x you #you x kid #reader x kid #kid x reader #the meet cute #one piece #modern day world au

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bisexualhomelander · 8 hours ago

Text

There is a lot of very interesting things in this interview that I would like to take a closer look at, so let me quote:

I mean, yes, we set out to be this funhouse mirror reflection of what we’re seeing in the world. Another metaphor is we like to be like the kid in the back of the classroom throwing spitballs at authoritarian — authority — figures because that’s healthy. The way some of these things line up, like us opening with a trial as certain former presidents were on trial and the way other world events seem to line up to the show are totally coincidental and frankly a little freaky.

I know he means this time-wise more than content-wise because the Trump trial happened right around the same week the show dropped, but there is something funny about him trying to play it off as coincidental. He has been name-dropping Trump and Homelander for so long now, and I have to admit that I do feel for him a little because he was, ironically, so on the money that by now, he has to fear his show getting censored to hell. And I know he is just trying to save it from that fate by saying: it was all a coinkydink, guysss, we're totally not criticising the gov. But Eric. Eric. Your marketing team YESTERDAY made a joke about Homelander being elected pope. Come on. You want me to believe "make America super again" was just you coincidentally choosing a cool motto for Homelander? Do what you must to save your show, man, I get it. But Jesus Christ.

And all I can say about it is it’s a show that’s about authoritarians who present as celebrities, and it’s a show about late-stage capitalism.

Eric, your show is on Amazon Prime.

But I’m really proud that our weird superhero show is also maybe the most current show on television.

As much as I complain about the Trump-Homelander thing, I am at a point where I feel Homelander might be doing a better job. At least he has Sage.

But our goal is we use that stuff [as] our flash and sizzle to get through a lot of our discussions and conversations about politics and society.

I find it a little disappointing that he seems to be under the impression that the people wouldn't want the more plot-heavy discussions and feels the need to include shock value. Eric, I think most people watch this show for the good plotlines. Season 1 was rife with plot and very little shock value, and it worked better.

That particular story, where Homelander goes down to the lab, that’s a really heartbreaking story. And a lot of that comes down to Ant[ony Starr], who really wanted to play it like a little boy. He had this really smart, insightful observation that when you go home, you revert to whoever you were when you were at that home, and he was a scared little boy then. Now he has all this power, but he’s still that little kid, and so, it made him, weirdly — to the extent to which Homelander can be — sympathetic [or] at least empathetic. You could at least understand how that torture led him to become the person that he is today. I think Ant pulls off an incredible magic trick to make maybe the most evil and sociopathic person on television understandable to the audience. And that is no small thing.

Eric, I don't think Homelander is the most sociopathic character on television. I don't even think he's in the Top 10 on your own show. You just described him, in this very sentence, as a scared boy. I don't fully believe a scared boy is the height of sociopathy. Either way, reading about Eric and Ant cooking scenes is always fun. They work so well.

(On another note, Eric is No. 1 creator of three-dimensional evil guys and then turns into the shocked Pikachu face when it actually works. He is such a guilty-pleasure-villain-lover. Eric, embrace it.)

And by design, we always love it when we can put Butcher and Homelander around the same emotional journeys and see how they react to them because they [have this] two sides of the same coin thing where they’re the epic hero and villain of the show. So anytime that we get an opportunity to mirror what they’re going through, we take it.

Thanks for the Butchlander mention, Eric, but... Did you just imply Butcher is the hero? Butcher? The man currently planning to genocide an entire species? That same Butcher? William J. Butcher?

Epic hero, even. Eric.

In many ways, it’s a show about humanity and how power, vengeance, and violence take it away.

Now take all that energy, Eric, and realise you're doing the same storyline with Homelander. And stop trying to say you're making him super evil.

Kripke talking a little about Soldier Boy ad Homelander's relationship in season 5

#season 5 speculation

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luiluvr · 19 hours ago

Note

Im majoring in cosmetology and something that you could write is reader just had a state exam. You studied very hard for it. You thought you aced it when you received your results from the exam. You failed it. You were heartbroken. Luigi comes home and finds you crying in the bathroom. He comforts you and is there for you. Encouraging you to keep trying and not to give up on your dreams. “Everything is going to be okay my princess, your the best cosmetologist I know, you will get there my beautiful angel” maybe something you can write. Chessy Lu here 🤧.

A+ in my heart || luigi mangione

A/N: i’m trying to catch up on old reqs in my inbox and this alongside one for hotchner were the firsts 💔 biggest apologies it’s taken me forever, also i think it’s so cool ur majoring in cosmetology 🥹 (shamelessly blasted this song while writing this ☝🏼☝🏼)

WARNINGS: none, just a bit of self-loathing, not proofread

SUMMARY: You graduated from cosmetology school, now you had to take the exam to be licensed to actually work. Unfortunately, when the results came in you had failed with three points to passing. Disappointed and frustrated with yourself, you cried in the bathroom trying to understand how you failed when you worked so hard. Luigi returns home and comforts you, reassuring you that you tried your best.

WC: 1.2k

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as you opened your email to review your results for the state exam you took a couple of weeks prior for your cosmetology license.

You spent endless hours studying, perfecting everything you knew, and breaking it down to the tiniest of details just so you’d be prepared to take the exam. This was your passion, your life, something you always dreamed of doing — not just for fun, but as a serious career. Doing hair, makeup and the other perks of cosmetics were so dear to your heart. It was a fulfilling childhood dream. You tried to steady your breath, whatever happened did not define your worth or your intelligence. Your laptop screen just read: Loading…

Finally, it loaded.

Oh!

Oh no.

You felt your heart drop to your ass, your body felt cold, like someone just sucked the life right from your bones. How did this happen? How could you have failed the stupid thing? You were immediately so disappointed in yourself, all of that work — and for what? To fail? Silence engulfed the room and this cloud of darkness hung over you, the results stared back at you like a laughing joke.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” You yap quietly to yourself. Standing, you slap the laptop shut, not enough to harm the electronic but enough to satisfy the anger you have within. With no idea what to do, you pace the apartment a while.

Reluctantly, you seat yourself back down again and open the laptop, trying to see if the email mentions anything about what you missed, if you’re able to retake it, and where to go from here.

It pissed you off, you were barely three points away from a passing grade. Although you weren’t able to see the questions you missed, just the idea made you emotional. How could you have worked that hard for this outcome? You had done everything possible that was recommended for this exam.

All the textbooks, carefully took in every note and section. Studied it over and over again. Wrote down important key points. It wasn’t fair.

You had failed the one thing you knew you were good at. All you could do was cry. You ended up on the bathroom floor with your head in your hands, sobbing.

Luigi was your boyfriend — of around two years now. Your biggest supporter and the honest love of your life. He cheered you on; helped in any way he could. Whether it be letting you cut his hair, paint his nails, give him facials or put makeup on him for an assignment — it never bothered him and he would always compliment your work.

So supportive to the point he only let you cut his hair because of how much he trusted your steady hands. He’d let you experiment around and trim his beard when he let it grow, let you try different hairstyles — hell, he’d even leave his nails painted hot pink with little swirls and details on them if it made you happy; because it made him happy too.

You were always proud of everything you did — or at least tried to be. He never let you feel like a failure if you cut his hair too short, or poked him in the eye with a makeup brush.

When he got home, he found the apartment quiet, other than a soft sound coming from the bathroom. Worried that maybe you fell, or were hurt, he dropped his bag and rushed over, “Baby?” He says, pushing the bathroom door, finding you with tears running down your cheeks, eyes glossy and puffy. Your cheeks were all red.

“Bellissima..” He whispers, kneeling beside you and immediately taking you into his arms, pulling you into his chest and nudging your body onto his lap. “What is it, baby? What happened?”

Managing to swallow the lump in your throat, you let him tilt your head up and wipe your tears with his thumb. You sniffle, embarrassed to say it, but you do. “I failed the exam.” The words stung being said out loud, a big, fat joke this all was.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He murmurs, kissing under your ear now, trying to ease your nerves. “I’m such an idiot.” You say, almost breaking down again. He made you so vulnerable, and he wouldn’t tell you to stop crying, he knew you needed to let it out. He'd let your tears soak his shirt completely if it meant hugging you to comfort.

He holds you tightly, doing just that. Allowing you to cry out the wave of emotions, his large palm traces your spine and he rubs back over it. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re not an idiot, you did the best you could. You know that, you’re not the only one who failed it either — there're plenty of successful cosmetologists who probably failed their first attempt.” He says reassuringly, peppering your forehead with kisses.

“I just don’t understand, Lu.” You whispered, wiping your cheeks dry and catching your breath. “I worked so hard.”

“You did, and you acknowledge that. That’s a good thing. You know you did the best you could, so now you can do even better.” He smiles. “What if I don’t, though?” You couldn’t help but ponder.

“Now don't you think that way, my love. Don’t get pessimistic on me, not after all the nail polish I’ve let you put on me.” He smirks, nudging you as he comfortingly rubs your hips subconsciously.

And god forbid he reminds you of the time he let you give him frosted tips. His mother almost had a heart attack. Saying that “he ruined his hair.” To be fair, it washed out rather quickly, it wasn’t meant to stay long — just another assignment.

“I’m sorry… I can’t help but think about it — what if I just fail the next time too? What if I fail every attempt they give me and I never get to be a cosmetologist? Maybe it’s a good thing, maybe the universe is telling me I won’t be a good one so I should stop now-“

Luigi hushes you, placing his pointer against your lips, he interrupts you, “Everything is going to be okay, princess. You are the best cosmetologist I know. Okay? You’re gifted, and you will get the chance to express it to the world, you’ll share your talent with others and make everyone feel special because they got to have you doing their hair, or makeup, or whatever else.”

You smile faintly at his words, sniffling. “You’ll get there, angel. You just need to take a break for yourself, step back and relax. Then come back to it when you’re ready. There’s another time to retake the exam, it doesn’t have to be right away.”

“Thank you..” You mumble sheepishly, blushing on top of your reddened, tear-stained cheeks. He brushes a few hairs behind your ear and gazes at you for a moment. “My beautiful princess.”

“Lu..” You smile more, embarrassed by him over-complimenting you now.

“Don’t Lu me, bellissima.” He grins, kissing you, holding your head in place as he bites your bottom lip for fun. You shake your head and pinch him.

“Thanks for making me feel better.” You state, toying with one of his curls. He admires your head on his chest.

“The way I see it, you got an A+ in my heart.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

#luiluvr #luigi mangione #luigi mangione fanfiction #luigi x reader #luigi mangione x reader #luigi fanfiction #luigi thoughts #luigi nicholas mangione #fanfic #anon ask

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