#Ignore the chimney. Please. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fanficbarbie · 8 months

Note

Smoking 🍃 with vinnie smut cause he’s so pookie bear (make it rough too please 💀💀)

��FMB❞ - vinnie hacker x reader

─⋆♡ an: based on this ask. FMB means f⋆ck me back. hopefully it's rough enough. this is my first smut post so i didn't want to make it too too rough, just fyi. unedited so ignore any mistakes. i hope yall enjoy. ★ ˙ᵕ˙ liv

─⋆♡ summary: you and vinnie have a complex relationship. it all comes to a head when you become bold enough to confront him post-blunt.

─⋆♡ warnings: overstimulation, softdom!vinnie, smut, fluff towards the end, tiny bit of angst, 18+ black!writer, language, alcohol, drugs, D!NC, physical descriptors (brief), choking, spitting, slight exhibitionism if you squint, claiming, rough smut, squirting, anal play, unprotected sex (i do not condone irl, wrap before you tap).

⋆word count: 3.9k ⋆ vinnie hacker masterlist ⋆

The loud bass of music floats in the background as I tap through Snapchat stories on my phone. The couch next to me dips and when I turn, I see Vinnie has joined me.

He doesn’t speak to me before pulling out a blunt and sparking it. As is, me and Vinnie’s relationship was complicated. We started off as friends, then smoke buddies. But the more we smoked together, the more we felt for each other. Or at least, I fell for him.

We had kissed and made out, but we’ve never had sex. After a few dates, I was becoming restless. The frustration of his mixed signals got the best of me. Now in the darkness of the crowded room, I’ve become bold enough to confront him.

I watch him as he inhales and exhales the smoke like a chimney. He seemingly notices my intense stare and stops. “Did you need something?” he asks with an attitude.

You can practically feel steam whistling out of your ears from how fuming your brain is right now. “Yeah actually. Give that to me,” I snap, pointing at his blunt.

He shrugs, ashing the blunt on the coffee table. “Okay,” he concedes, passing me the joint.

Letting the smoke dance in my lungs, I choke it out slowly. Now that the weed is hitting, I decide now is the time. “Vinnie, are you still interested in me?” I ask him abruptly.

He chuckles and takes the blunt from me. “Oh, baby. Of course I fucking am. Why would you even ask me that?” he shoots back with an eyebrow raised.

Frowning, I pick at my cuticles out of nervousness. “Because we go on dates, we kiss, but we’ve never had sex. I just don’t know what you want any more,” I confess, standing from the couch in a huff.

Of course, I want to take things further. But I’m not sure if he wants me anymore when he barely touches me.

He stops me from moving any further, tugging my hand. I grudgingly turn around, looking down at him. “Because, doll. We haven’t had the sex talk yet,” he discloses, rubbing his free hand up and down my thigh.

I roll my eyes and scoff, snatching the blunt out of his hands to take a hit. He places his hands on my hips, watching me intensely. “What do you mean by ‘sex talk’? I’m not 5,” I ask after blowing out a toke.

He stands until he’s staggering high towers over me. “I mean…” he pushes lightly, backing me into the wall so I’m trapped between his body and the drywall. “I want to know what you like, what you don’t like, and what you’ll beg for before I feel you cumming on my cock,” he whispers in my ear, licking a stripe up my neck afterward.

My head tips back in a moan, which makes him as hard as a rock. “Fuck, baby. Do you see what you do to me? I want nothing more than to make you feel good, in the best way that I can, for the rest of my life.” he presses his body into mine, slowly kissing up my neck.

One of the partiers comes up behind Vinnie and taps him on the shoulder. He ignores them, waving them off with the rest of the blunt. His hand moves to the inside of my thigh and he rubs me so close that I know he can feel the inside of my legs shake. “Should I take care of you right here?” he bites my neck, and I whimper, pulling his hair.

Vinnie pulls back from me, piercing a hole into my eyes. “Please?” I beg, gnawing on my lip.

He uses the other hand and wraps it around my throat, effectively restricting my breathing. He tilts my head to the side. “Do you think you deserve it?” he whispers against my lips with his eyebrow raised.

Struggling, I lightly nod my head in his firm grip. “Yes, Vinnie,” I squeak out, and he gives me one last squeeze on the throat before grabbing my wrist and yanking me through the crowd.

Bodies brush past me as Vinnie drags me up the steps to his room. “Wait, where are we going?” I ask, confused. He just asked if I needed to be taken care of right there and then... I did say yes.

“You think I’m gonna let everyone watch me fuck you?” he scoffs.

Once we got the sex talk out of the way, Vinnie makes quick work to get me undressed. I moan into the darkness of the room as Vinnie leaves love bites down my neck, only breaking the contact to lift my tank top over my head. He pauses his movements to take in the black lacy bralette I'm wearing. “Fuck, baby. You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, then smashes his lips back onto mine.

He slams me against his closed bedroom door before slowly dropping down onto his knees. Watching him sink to the ground has an involuntary giggle leaving my lips. “Vinnie, I didn’t think you were going to actually-” he cuts me off, spinning me around so my ass is facing him.

Suddenly, an echoing smack verberates off the walls and my ass cheeks are on fire. Yelping, I sink my teeth into my bottom lips, trying to muffle the noise I’m making.

He slowly inches his hands up my legs until my skirt is fully pushed up to my stomach. His fingers meet my panties, and he runs my fingers over them, seemingly savoring every last moment. “Did you wear these for me, sunshine?” He hooks one finger under one side, pulling it back and making the elastic snap around my hips.

I reach out to support myself on anything to keep my knees from buckling. “No,” I joke, and he bends my knees a bit.

He rubs calming circles into the back of my thighs with his thumbs. “Don’t need you collapsing on my baby,” he informs me.

Taking both sides in his hands, he rips the fabric in half and shreds it off my body like paper. “Shame. I would’ve let you keep them.”

Gasping, I look down and watch them fall to the ground. He palms my ass, spreading my cheeks further apart. “Bend over just a little bit more, baby,” he instruct, kissing my ass on both sides.

Slowly shifting in his grasp, I whine as I bend over. I’m desperate for him, all over me. Filling every hole over and over again until I’m screaming for help.

He hovers his mouth over my pussy. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he praises me, running his pointer finger up and down my folds to collect my wetness.

“Let me tell you something, sunshine,” he grumbles, rubbing his fingers in circles on my puffy, swollen nub. “There's absolutely nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Do you understand?” he looks up at me, awaiting my response.

Unable to focus, I just nod my head.

“You have to use your words, baby.” he instantly retracts his fingers from my clit bringing them into his mouth. With a pop, he pulls them out, moaning at the taste of my arousal.

I groan, throwing my head back in frustration. “Yes, I know. Just please take care of me, Vinnie,” I practically beg for the second time tonight.

He returns his fingers to my pussy, slowly rubbing around my entrance. “If you asked me to shoot myself, I would,” he growls, slowly sinking his fingers into me. Curling them downwards on every thrust, his fingers search for that spongy spot. He pulls out and thrusts into me again, and my breath quickens. “If you asked me to slit my wrists, I would.” Quickening his pace, my moans echo through the large bedroom. “You gotta stay quiet, baby. I wanna be the only one to hear those pretty moans.”

He uses his free hand, bringing it up to my clit, rubbing fast circles on my sensitive bud. His fingers are thrusting into me at such an intense rate that I feel the world collapsing beneath me. My pussy contracts around his fingers and he groans deeply, sending a shiver up my spine. “Fuck yourself on my fingers, sunshine,” he commands, hitting my sweet spot.

I mewl, obeying his commands, and begin rocking back into him. My orgasm starts approaching rapidly, his fingers drive into me at an unrelenting pace. When my walls flutter, he instantly slows his pace. “Not yet, baby. You can’t cum until you’re quiet.”

Crying again, I bring my hand up to muffle the sound successfully. He applies more pressure on the quick circles he’s drawing on my clit. I arch my back again until I’m moving with his fingers just as he requested. I moan loudly, the coil in my stomach about to snap.

He blows a quick shot of air onto my exposed clit, the chill making the coil snap. My vision turns white as I quietly moan out, "Fuck, Vinn.”

“That’s it, sunshine. Cum for me, let go,” he murmurs underneath me, and I can feel the lust dripping off his tongue as my orgasm rocks through me. The pace of his fingers doesn’t slow as he works me through my orgasm, and I hear my nails scratch against the drywall. My legs quake and my back arches slightly, my mouth opening in a silent moan.

He slows his thrusting and pulls out of me, rising to his feet. He turns me around to face him, his eyes taking in the fucked out expression on my face. “You wanna know how good you taste, baby?” Grabbing my chin, he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip.

I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath and lean back into the wall. “Yes,” I whisper, and as soon as the words leave my lips, his fingers sink into my mouth. Deciding to tease him, I swirl my tongue around his digits, imagining my tongue on his cock. His fingers push back further into my throat until I gag a little, then he pulls them out. Fucking hope he’s impressed that I can take them that far without coughing.

Without another thought, I smash my lips against his, savoring the taste of my orgasm on his tongue. “God, you taste so fucking good. I could eat you forever,” he growls, moving my body back onto the bed.

He crawls on top of me and his bulge is pressed into me once again. “Vinnie, please. I need you.” I whimper into his mouth as my shaky fingers move to slowly unbutton his shirt.

But he grabs my wrists, stopping me. “I got it, sunshine,” he laughs, then makes quick work to remove his shirt.

I shamelessly watch as he slowly strips out of his pants and his boxers. Even though I’ve seen him naked in front of me before, he’s never fully been hard. His dick is beautiful. His swollen head is already dripping with precum, making him look good enough to deep throat.

Vinnie slowly climbs back onto the bed and my eyes widen, realizing what’s about to happen. My breathing quickens in anticipation as he comes down to kiss me hard and deep.

I moan into him, but my hands move to his chest to push him back as I look down, suddenly scared. “It’s too big, I don’t think it’ll fit,” I insist, crawling away from him.

He grabs my ankles, pulling me back down. “We’re gonna make it fit, baby,” he retorts, his eyes dark.

The tip of his dick moves back and forth in between my folds, collecting wetness. I whimper, squeezing his shoulders.

“Hey, sunshine. Look at me.” He grabs my chin until I make eye contact with him. “We can stop if you want to stop. I won't go any further,” he reassures, resting his forehead on mine.

I immediately shake my head, inhaling a sharp breath. “No, I want this–I want you. Just be careful, please.” I pull him into me for a heated kiss and tug his hair, making him groan and deepen the kiss.

Finally, he pulls back and lines himself up near my entrance, spitting and letting the dribble collect on his base. “This is gonna hurt, so just relax for me, baby.” My legs are pushed open a little wider.

I nod, trying to calm myself, and he laces his fingers in mine before he moves. The tip of his shaft pushes in, and I gasp at the stretch. “Shit, Vinnie,” I cry out, squeezing his hands until my knuckles turn white. Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, the burn from his girth sends fire into my core.

Immediately, he stops moving, looking into my eyes. “Do you want me to stop? I’ll stop,” he groans out.

I bite my lip, shaking my head no.

He kisses the corner of my eyes and whispers, “Okay, just relax for me, sunshine. I’ll try to make this quick.” He continues to sink slowly into me, bottoming out, and I wince again. To allow me to adjust to his length, he pauses his movements. “You’re squeezing me so tight. Fuck, I’m not gonna last long,” he breathes, bending down to kiss my neck. And then, he slowly starts rocking into me and the burn is replaced with a familiar warmth.

“Oh, god. Vinnie,” I moan, releasing his hands to claw at his back for support.

He’s hitting the perfect spot already, and he just got inside me. He continues to slowly push in and out of me, allowing me to savor the feeling of him inside me. I moan, biting on his shoulder.

“More.” My legs are already shaking. “Give me more,” I demand, kissing up to his ear.

Pulling back, he looks at me. “Are you sure?” His hand strokes my curls.

I pull him down into a kiss, allowing my tongue to explore his mouth once more. “Yes, please. Use me, fuck me,” I beg, squirming underneath him.

Vinnie fists the sheets below my head and adjusts his position. I brace myself. “The safe word is ‘moon’, Sunshine. Use it if you need it.” He kisses my neck once more and begins driving into me at a steady, even rate. The tip of his length kisses my g-spot with each stroke. “Fuccckkkk,” he growls into my ear, and I feel myself squeezing him when the words hit my eardrums.

“Vinnie,” I moan.

The only sound outside of our pants and moans is the sound of his skin slapping against mine as he fucks me. He wraps his tattooed hand around my throat, leaning in for a kiss. And as if I wasn't already in heaven, he brings his fingers down to rub quick circles on my clit.

“I’m gonna cum, doll. But I need to feel you squeezing me before I do,” he commands, and I cry as I arch into him.

He pounds into me steadily, rocking my body into the bed. Each stroke pushes me closer and closer over the edge until I feel myself contracting around him.

“Cum with me, sunshine,” he whispers against my lips, and it sends me over the edge.

Arching my back and screaming, I claw at his back and bite his shoulder as my orgasm hits me like a train. Just when I thought he couldn’t get any deeper, he lifts my hips slightly.

“Where do you want me to cum, love?” His dick kisses my cervix, and I know I’ll be bruised tomorrow. But I can’t bring myself to give a shit right now.

He twitches inside me, and I lick a stripe up his neck. “Cum in me, Vinnie,” I whimper, and he growls into my neck.

His seed spills inside me, his strokes becoming uneven. I moan at the feeling, and squeeze around him, milking out every drop of his cum as he paints my walls. It fills me up and I’ve never felt better after sex.

He stills inside me, kissing me breathlessly, and takes a few moments to catch his breath. Before he pulls out, I wrap my arms around him, causing him to bury further inside me. “Stay,” I plead, tears threatening to spill over in my eyes.

He softly strokes my hair, wrapping his arm around me and slowly flipping us over so I’m on top. “Okay, sunshine. I got you. Fuck, that was the fastest I’ve ever cum before in my life,”

Like I requested, he doesn’t pull out. Just pulls me closer into his body until I’m melting into the beautiful tattoos on his chest. His fingers begin tracing light patterns across my back.

I sniffle, looking up at him with a small smile on my face, and he looks at me. “You okay, sunshine?” he asks, and I shift on his length a little bit.

Sitting up to put my hands on his chest, I feel his dick twitching and growing inside me. “Yeah. Let's go again,” I giggle, bending down to kiss him. It surprises me how he’s already ready for round two, but I don’t complain.

He groans into my mouth, wrapping his decorated arms around my waist. Slowly, I lift myself until I feel his tip threatening to slip out. I slide back down onto him, filling myself completely and moaning at the change of position.

His hands tighten around my waist, helping me swirl my hips around. “I want you to know you’re mine, sunshine,” he groans, reaching up to play with my nipples as I moan at the feeling of him stretching me from this angle.

I pick up my pace, bouncing on his dick until he’s hitting my perfect spot over and over again. My legs shake, and I feel my third orgasm approaching rapidly. My hand moves to his neck, squeezing it hard. I feel so fucking powerful, making myself cum with his length.

Vinnie looks up at me with amazement in his eyes and slides his thumb in between us to apply pressure on my clit. I throw my head back and moan, still choking him. “God. You look so pretty when you moan.”

The pace of his thumb quickens, and I topple over the edge, crashing into my third orgasm with a loud cry. I release my hand on his neck, falling forward. Vinnie removes his hand from my clit to catch me and keep from coming down on his body. He allows me to rest on his chest as he starts to fuck up into me, elongating my orgasm.

“Vinnie,” I choke out, and my voice bounces off his walls.

He picks up his pace, driving into me from below. “That’s it, doll. Scream my name. Let the world know who fucking owns you.”

He pounds my body into his, and I grip his shoulders when I feel a tingling sensation on my clit. Wetness suddenly shoots out from between my legs, running down my thighs and covering his stomach. My whole body quakes, but he doesn’t slow down.

“Fuck, sunshine. Look at the mess you made, cumming all over me.”

My brain is on a different planet as he slows down, allowing me to glance down at the soaked sheets. He slowly pulls me off him and I wince, falling backward onto the bed. Then, Vinnie moves me so I’m laying on my side, out of the wet spot, before slowly pushing back into me, spooning me, and caressing my hair. “No one will ever fuck you ever again, for the rest of your life but me. Do you understand?”

Slamming into me at an unrelenting pace, he bites my neck. His hand wraps around my throat, applying a bit of pressure. Every thrust sends me closer to the edge, and the only thing I register is him kissing the back of my neck. I’m so fucked, I can’t speak. I can’t think.

“Yes,” I babble out, arching my back into him.

All I feel is pure bliss. The room is spinning, and I feel another orgasm rapidly approaching. He nibbles a love bite into my neck, hitting my G-spot over and over again. My thighs are lifted a little higher until I see white. “Cum for me again, Sunshine. You feel so good when you squeeze me,” he mumbles into my neck.

I shake my head, and gripping his forearm that chokes me. “I can’t,” I cry, looking at the view from his room— everything is spinning.

Vinnie increases his pace, slamming into me. “You can, and you will,” he snarls in my ear.

I feel the tears spilling over in my eyes as he applies more pressure on my throat. The overstimulation of his dick drilling into me repeatedly sends me toppling over another edge, and I wail his name, feeling my soul leave my body. Everything feels fuzzy as his thrusts become sloppy before he lets out an animalistic grunt. I feel his dick twitch, then, shooting hot ropes into me. The heat of it makes me feel like I’m going to pass out, and I moan at the sensation. He continues to slowly thrust into me, riding out both of our orgasms.

After we’re both spent, he buries himself deep inside me, stroking my hair and peppering kisses on my shoulder as I come down from my high. “You did so well for me, Sunshine. Fucking fantastic,” he praises.

He slowly caresses my hips as my body shakes against his. I wince as he slowly pulls out and scoots down to the bottom of the bed. Spreading my legs wide open, he watches our cum leak out of me. My swollen pussy contracts around nothing, pushing his seed out, and I hear him groan.

He brings his fingers up to my entrance and I wince. “Shhh, Sunshine, I’m just making sure we don’t waste a drop,” he coos, stuffing his fingers into me and massaging my g-spot.

An inevitable moan leaves my lips I arch my back to get closer to him. “You want to cum again?” He asks before leaning over to flick his tongue over her my. Crying out at the overstimulation, I shake my head.

“Too bad, baby.” he quickly thrusts into me with his fingers, moaning at the taste of our orgasms mixing. His tongue flicks over my swollen, puffy clit. I haven’t used our safe word, and I know he’s going to keep pushing me until I say it.

Vinnie removes his tongue from my clit and he uses his other hand to collect our orgasms on his finger. The pace of his fingers slows and he begins rubbing a circle around my tight hole. He slowly pushes his finger into my ass, fucking me with both hands.

I’m unable to control my movements as I thrash underneath him. His finders drive in and out, reaching the most delicious spot.

“Give me one last one, Sunshine. I promise I’ll let you stop after,” he orders, and I move my hands to his hair to tug on it.

He pushes his finger further into my ass, curling it a bit more, and I snap. Neglecting his noise warning, my screams and my moans erupt through the room. He moans as he works both of my holes through what I assume is my last orgasm.

As finally comes down, I whimper, “Moon,” and he stops and slowly pulls his fingers out, satisfied with my overstimulation.

He crawls up my body, grabbing my face so I'm forced to look at him. “You're everything to me–perfect and mine,” he mumbles into my mouth and I wipe away the tears in my eyes.

My brain buzzes with post-sex high. “Only for you,” I whisper into the night.

I did so well, and I am his.

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elvensorceress · 15 days

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not quite tuesday tidbit teases

it's probably tuesday somewhere and this just popped in my head and I wanted to share. what do you think? do we want more?

tagging if any of you want to share something 😘 @hippolotamus @eddiebabygirldiaz @messyhairdiaz @rainbow-nerdss @tizniz @spotsandsocks @daffi-990 @monsterrae1 @diazsdimples @watchyourbuck @wh0re-behavi0r @911onabc @chaosandwolves @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @rogerzsteven @epicbuddieficrecs @bekkachaos @fiona-fififi @wikiangela @exhuastedpigeon @the-likesofus @hoodie-buck @lover-of-mine @mikereads @jesuiscenseedormir @lemonzestywrites 💕

It’s just after midnight and Buck is going to bed.

He’s been saying this for a couple hours but YouTube had too many AItA videos and Instagram had those gorgeously edited food recipe posts and he doesn’t even want to talk about the doomscrolling of TikTok. But he had a day off and it was supposed to be with Tommy so they could take the weekend and go somewhere fun and romantic, but then Tommy had to work. Buck could’ve gone in with the rest of A shift. But it was nice to have some alone time for himself so he took time for himself.

His phone goes off with a call five seconds after he’s gotten into bed. It’s a number he doesn’t know. So he could ignore it. Or wait until they’ve left a message. But who would call at this hour for no reason? Or for scamming, telemarketing reasons?

So Buck answers.

“Buckley?” The man on the other end says. He sounds vaguely familiar but not enough that Buck came put a name or face with a voice.

“Uh, yeah? Who is this?”

“Mehta. Captain Mehta. Of the 133.”

“Oh, hey,” Buck says, automatically friendly and smiling. That makes sense now. “What’s up? Why the— why are you calling?” Why would he call in the middle of the night?

Why does anyone call in the middle of the night.

“Buckley,” he says and it sounds… it sounds… it sounds like…

They have him now. They’ll take care of him. Why don’t we get you cleaned up. He’s in good hands. They’ll rush him to surgery. You don’t have to worry. Let’s get you cleaned up.

Lets get you cleaned up.

Buck can’t breathe. His whole body is cold. Frozen.

He tries to get out of bed. He tries, but just slides to the floor beside it. He doesn’t make it any further.

“Buckley, there was a helicopter crash. Your team, our team we went to rescue the pilot. Your, uh, sorry, I don’t know what you call him, but your boyfriend? Life partner? He—”

Oh god. No. No, that’s not. That’s not happening. That is not what is happening right now. This can’t be a, Tommy is dead and I’m letting you know. It can’t be that. It’s not. They were going to—

They were supposed to have a romantic trip together. Wine tasting and some kind of museum Tommy thought Buck would love and maybe a visit to a hot springs up north and they were going to watch the sunset and the sunrise and—

And he can’t be dead. He can’t be.

“He’s alive,” Mehta says. “We’re at Cedars-Sinai. He’s alive, but. It doesn’t look good. He’s in the ICU now. He’s critical.”

Buck pushes himself up. Has to. He has to be there.

He barely remembers to thank Mehta or even end the call before he switches off his phone and runs out the door.

The drive is a blur. The drive is probably very illegal and he doesn’t know how he doesn’t crash, but he doesn’t have time to wait for an Uber or for anyone else. He runs as fast as possible to the ER lobby, and almost runs directly into Chimney.

Not almost. Buck crashes into him and almost knocks them both to the floor but that almost actually is an almost because Chim somehow steadies them both.

He’s pale. Shaken up. His eyes are red. He’s been crying.

“Chim,” Buck says as broken as he feels. “Chim, where— where is he? What happened? How did this happen? Please tell me he’s okay. He can’t be dying, right? That can’t be happening?”

Chim opens his mouth and grips Buck’s arms tighter, still trying to steady him. “Buck, we— we don’t know yet. It was bad, but he’s tough. You know that. He could be fine.”

Buck lets out a broken whimper and backs away from him. “No. He is fine. He’s fine and this isn’t happening. I just— Chim, I just found him. I can’t lose him already.”

There’s a flash of something on Chimney’s face but there’s movement around Buck, too. Other people. Bobby, he’s pretty sure. And Hen. They would be here. They would try to comfort him. But they don’t need to because it’s fine. Everything is fine and this isn’t happening.

It can’t be happening.

He can’t be dying.

There’s more movement and it’s all blurry, probably filtered through tears, but then everything stops. The world stops.

Tommy is right in front of him. Whole, alive, real, a little rumpled and there are bloody scratches and bandages on his face and around his arm. But he’s here. He’s fine.

Buck slams into him, throws his arms around him, and sobs as he clutches him.

“Baby,” Tommy says softly as he hugs Buck tightly, cradling him, comforting him, and Buck can breathe. He’s not frozen. Everything is okay. They were all wrong. Buck knew they were wrong. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Tommy tells him and holds him tighter.

Buck pulls back just to look at him. “No, it’s okay. You’re okay.” He takes a deep breath and smiles because Tommy is fine. He’s right here and everything is good. Buck touches Tommy’s battered face and caresses him gently. He’s bruised and also pale, and very soggy. It’s been stormy tonight. Another reason why Buck wasn’t all that eager to go out in it. “They told me— fuck, they scared me. I thought— I thought I lost you. I was so scared. I don’t want to lose you. He told me—Mehta, Captain Mehta— he called and told me there was a helicopter crash and my boyfriend was in the ICU and he’s critical and it didn’t look good, and I can’t— god, I can’t. Tommy, I—”

Tommy’s face isn’t good. It’s pale. Bad. Not smiling. Not relieved. It falls and he can’t even hide the devastation on it. He looks like guilt and death, and his mouth moves but nothing comes out. “Evan,” he finally says, barely says. It’s too quiet, too broken. “Evan…”

No. No, Buck doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want to throw up right now. And he just might. His heart is rabbit speed lightning and his legs don’t exist anymore and there’s an awful blackhole of apocalyptic world-ending destruction swirling and growing in his stomach.

Someone takes his arm. Someone needs his attention. He’s moved from Tommy’s arms because there is no safety or comfort anymore. There’s no relief. There’s no happily ever after, nothing will ever be okay.

Buck knows why Mehta said what he said. He knows who isn’t here. He knows who would have come to him and immediately comforted him.

He knows.

He knows what this is now. It can’t be that. It can’t. Buck doesn’t know anything.

Hen tells him. She holds his arm and says calmly even if it’s broken. Everything is broken. They’re all broken. “Buck. It’s Eddie.”

No. No, it isn’t. It isn’t that either. Buck really can’t take that. It was bad enough, unimaginable enough the other way. It can’t be this.

He’s already done this. They did this before. More than once. Forty plus feet of cruel earth and a whirling burst of metal and blood all over him.

Eddie’s blood was all over him.

“The helicopter went down and got stuck on the cliffs. He went in so he could pull Tommy out, and we got Tommy out,” Hen tells him, every word a knife stabbing through both of them. All of them.

“He saved me,” Tommy says, quiet and full of regret. “He saved me and went down with it. They thought it was stable enough. It wasn’t. They got him out after. But…”

Buck collapses to his knees on the floor and holds his head in his own hands as if he can somehow hold himself together when there’s no holding himself together.

It’s Eddie.

It’s Eddie it’s Eddie it’s Eddie.

Buck shatters like flimsy glass and sobs in all the pieces that are ripped out of him. What about Chris? What about Abuela? What about Eddie’s parents and sisters and friends and everyone else who loves him?

What about Buck? They can’t be BuckandEddie without Eddie.

“I need to see him,” Buck suddenly says to the closest person who will listen. “I need to be with him. Please. Please.”

There’s arguing that happens. Bobby yells at someone. Hen, Chim, and Tommy stay around him like a protective guard. Until someone finally agrees. He’s not in surgery, they can’t take him to surgery yet. He’s not stable enough. But he’s on a ventilator, life support. They warn him and Buck doesn’t care. He knows how bad these things can be. He’s lived through several.

They give him five minutes.

They’ll have to drag him out with an armed guard if they think Buck will agree to only that. But at least it’s something.

It’s something.

Eddie is mostly covered. Blankets, wires, tubes, IV lines, bandages. He’s paler than all of them. Slightly blue-purple, cyanotic. They tell him a few things but Buck can’t hear them. He just wants to be with Eddie.

Buck sits beside him and rests a shaking hand over Eddie’s hand, under the blankets where it’s trying to be warm. Buck would give anything to keep him warm, and alive.

Eddie needs to stay alive. He needs to.

Buck rests his forehead on the side of the bed near their joined hands. He would say something if he had the capacity to form words and sentences. The only thing in his head right now is, don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.

And that’s probably all he can say. All that really matters.

Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please, don’t ever leave me.

(read now on AO3)

#tease tidbit tuesday #jenwyn wip #buddie wip #mentions of #bucktommy #but this is me okay lol anything and everything is about buddie #911 #buddie #fic: if i should fall

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tarjapearce · 2 months

Text

Crimson Crown (Pt. 9)

Cover by @pinkiemme ✨

King! Miguel O'Hara x Princess! Reader

Warnings: Violence, implicit manslaughter, mild angst, Dark! Miguel, scheming, character introduction, emotional distress.

Summary: Miguel's time runs short to get you back. A new ally is brought in the game.

"Peter."

Jessica mumbled, concerned at her fellow commander's bewildered expression.

"He... He killed her?"

"Yes. Now we're instructed to wipe the D'Angelo family."

Jessica's words sat like a brick in his stomach. Peter wasn't one to reminisce in the past, but knew that when Miguel, no, The Red King, showed up, only bloodshed satisfied the voracious appetite. Sometimes not even that.

The ever reminder of his friend's past, a nature that always caught up to him.

"He mentioned that he'd do it himself. I thought he was lying."

"Is Miguel we're talking about, Pete." Jessica secured her greaves and armor, ready for the upcoming bloodshed. "I just hope he gets to calm down before he hurts the Princess even further. What happened anyways? I saw Dana."

"She arranged a meeting. Guess she spilled it all to the princess."

Jessica sighed, rubbing her temples, "Although Dana's gone, the damage is done. Keep an eye on her and let me know as soon as Baron Darko shows up."

"Right..."

"And if possible... Keep the princess away from him. We don't know his reaction if she rejects him again."

Peter just nodded, letting a dreadful sigh.

----

With every step he gave, the more his preys recoiled. There was no room for them to escape as The Red King had blocked every escape route, and the ones that somehow managed to scurry from his blazing fury, ended up in the hands of his soldiers.

Screams and terror filled the D'Angelo Villa when the reaper showed up, in the shape of the King himself, mercilessly swinging his swords at whatever thing that moved.

The Red King took matters on his own, he wouldn't deny himself the right to end up the lives of those that reminded him of the woman that threw everything out the window, out of spite and jealousy.

With every swing of his twin swords, the anger that boiled inside, sung in delight. With every droplet of blood that soaked his body, his eyes seemed to twinkle in utter joy.

His task was clear. To wipe the D'Angelo's. It didn't matter if the house the bloodshed was happening was one of the first gifts he gave to Dana. It would burn too.

Jessica wielded her sword, sticking to only deliver the final blow if they survived the king's ruthless anger. But poor of Baroness Carla, Dana's mother.

Her pleas were ignored as Miguel dragged her by her hair to the chimney.

"Your majesty!" She pleaded and struggled "I beg of you, stop this madness!"

She hiccuped as Miguel let her hair go

"You seem to have forgotten your place, Carla."

"I haven't! This is..." She panted and kneeled before him, begging, "Please. Spare me. You won't hear from me again!"

"You're right. I won't. Cause I'll make sure of it."

"W-What?"

Carla's eyes could only widen at his next words.

"You'll burn. With this place."

Her head shook, just like the bird's nest she had for a hair.

"No!"

The rest of his soldiers had been dousing the villa with flammable oil, the same kind that were used in the machineries back in the main cities of Arachne.

Glass shattered, and soon smoke begun filling the upper floors, fire consuming everything in it's wake. Temperature rising and fogging up the second part of the stairs.

"Miguel, I beg of you!"

He only quirked a brow, while his eyes remained in a deadpan.

"Cállate de una puta vez. Me tienes harto." (Shut the fuck up already. I'm sick of you)

Miguel took a lamp and doused the oil around Carla that backed away as soon as the liquid reached the hems of her skirt, without much thought he clashed his swords together, causing some sparks to bounce off and bringing to life a roaring fire.

Carla screamed, trying to put the flames away. The last thing she could see was a tall and imposing shadow, glowering with red eyes her way.

But if she was to die, he'd hear her. Even if it that meant to rush her death thanks to the rising smoke up her lungs.

"You'll pay with everything you love the most! You hear me!?" She shouted with the little strength she had. "You'll pay!"

The Red King's eyes crinkled in amusement, but instead of talking, he just turned on his heels, leaving the fire to devour everything in its wake.

The door was slammed, his red eyes roared in tandem with the fire around him. Like a true demon spat right out of the deepest corner of Hell.

"Keep the fire under control. Once done, search the area."

"What about Baron Darko?"

"Let him witness his failure, and deliver him Dana's ashes once he has done so."

His soulless stare contemplated for a bit more the fire that roared alive in mighty and loud cracks as it consumed the succumbing structure. Erasing all traces of a once noble home he took under his wing.

In truth, he never really cared about Dana's family. He had initially just wanted her, but her generous soul and body had gotten her family the very same Villa that now scorched at his feet. Carla's screams echoed weakly until they were no more.

There was nothing that bound him to the past, as it burned into nothing but ash and soot.

Yet, he felt empty. And he hated it.

Despite him getting rid of the now unnecessary evil, it felt like a tremendous pyrrhic victory. It didn't satisfied him.

"Your majesty." Jessica spoke, kneeling beside him, "All the family members were slaughtered. Dana's ashes soon will be ready."

"Do you think she'd fear me?"

Jessica looked at him as she rose, surprised by his sudden question and took a sigh. She needed to be careful with her words, he hated getting sugarcoated after all.

She could only muster a "Probably."

"I need to see the princess."

"And you think seeing her after a fresh kill is a good idea, because?"

His eyes glowered at her, Jessica looked away.

"As you wish."

---

Call it good or bad luck, but you weren't in your room. His nose flared angrily and his lips scowled upon not finding you inside.

He needed to see you, to show you what he had done to try and compensate the damage he had caused you indirectly. He needed you to witness what happened when someone tried to hurt you.

Cause the ones that had dared to tear you both apart were no more. The sleazy and annoying bitch he had for a mistress was being turned into plant's fertilizer as he roamed your room. But even so, the putrid aura that reminisced from Dana's soul would surely make the plants to die. Just like her.

He wouldn't dare to soil something so precious like your playground and knowledge. He had done enough.

His eyes went for the not so hidden diary on your desk. If the many times he had read it had taught him something, was that you always keep it hidden.

Could you possibly know about him reading and invading your privacy? No. He's always been careful and made sure to put it back where it was. But the way your diary was so carelessly placed on the desk only made him assume you left it there for resuming your writing later.

His hand hesitated before grabbing the worn out leather cover with all the gentleness he could muster, to then flip the pages, as if continuing his weekly reading.

The king has agreed! Against all odds and my own nerves, I've gotten him to take a break and invited him over lunch.

I cannot wait to see how everything unfolds!

He remembered that day as it was a couple of hours ago. You had caught him off guard, with all his defenses on his ankles. How could he say no to you when you were so excited to share with him?

Now he'd be lucky if he got glimpses of you if anything .

Miguel grunted as he read the next entry.

The king. He's such a wonderful man. He's been an amazing company. We shared some more of Arachne and even ourselves. I believe that we're getting closer.

Would he be a good kisser? Probably. His lips are always inviting and delectable. Oh dear... I'm thinking inappropriately again. My heart sings with joy whenever he thinks of me as his future bride.

He chuckled, feeding his ego for a moment only to frown at the next pages. It wasn't just the way the sheets were written, but the actual state of them. Wrinkled, crumpled even with blotches of ink smeared all over.

His finger traced over them, feeling the remnants of your liquid pain, long dry on the surface. And by the many stains in them, he assumed you had spent hours crying.

His scorching fury enervated, slowly, upon reading a simple line.

I thought him different.

He gulped and clenched his jaw. Ready to keep his eyes glued on the words you you didn't speak, but wrote.

I was naive in to believing this could be different. But I think I've forgotten my place in all this.

I really tried to understand, but at the end of the day everything that matters are selfish desires. I should have seen this coming

And he should too. It was all matter of time for the bomb to explode at his face. And now that it did, he was left with so much to do that for once he was at lost on how to get it all back. How to get you back.

I had a bad feeling when receiving that letter, after my picnic with him.

His frown deepened.

God, he wanted to be able to turn back time and have Dana killed in other painful ways for being so damn bold and stupid.

I met her. I met his mistress. And god, I wish I didn't.

She is cunning enough to lure me alone, dangerous and made sure to remind me of my place in all this political game with her words. And she's gorgeous.

I felt my heart break in million shards as she revealed her title to me. The king's main mistress.

He should've definitely made Dana's death slower.

Is this why he refused to see me at first? Is this why he was so reluctant to share his time with me? I don't know what to believe anymore.

I feel... dirty.

A painful pang ran through his chest, dulling the anger, replacing it with a glum wave of guilt.

I let his hands to touch me, when he has touched her. Even though I scrubbed hard enough to make my skin burn, I still feel his caresses on me. How do I get rid of them? I feel fooled and filthy.

"Princesa..." he mumbled, guilt dripping in every syllable.

He flipped the page.

She is set into producing him a heir, or so she stated. That they've been trying even before I came. No wonder why Prince Gabriel mistook me for a mistress that night.

But, why would I stay between the both? They both lie and hurt and I know when to admit defeat.

Miguel had to clutch at his chest as his heart gave a painful beat. A frustrated sigh escaped him.

"Jessica?"

"Yes, your majesty?"

"Bring my medicine."

Jessica left, and he kept on reading.

I spilled the truth to my mother back when I visited her. Bless her, it was good to see her despite our condition. She told me, instructed me even to return home if he ever causes me great pain again.

His breath hitched as his heartbeats increased erratically.

I wanted to give him the benefit of doubt first, and I believed him

His jaw clenched even tighter as there was a smudge of ink at the end of the word. Another dry tear muddling the last two letters.

May my people and God forgive me, but I won't marry him. I refuse to lay with him, and much less in a bed where he had so many others before. Lady Dana specially. He's like the rest of those I knew.

I might be selfish to think this way, but... I thought I could have him for myself. That I could have my own family and some peace at last, but now I realize that it's all been in my imagination. I've played my role as pawn in this game and although my purpose wasn't fulfilled completely, I can only hope that the next man I'm bound to isn't a liar.

No, he wouldn't allow it. No other man would have you. He couldn't.

My mother has always reminded me that there is always more men out there that would die for me without a second thought. Would they lie too, though? I don't know. I hope not. I couldn't take another blow like this.

Jessica returned just in time before he entered into a crisis. He gulped down the vial's content in a go. The sour and foul tasting liquid slid down his throat, burning his esophagus with its much needed nastiness.

The Commander watched him, concerned as he tucked the diary back on the desk and rummaged through the several scribbled papers in your desk. He found Dana's letter, trying his absolute best to resist the urge to tear to shreds the piece of paper. It was her handwriting.

And something else he wasn't prepared for. A letter to your mother, Queen Dhalia, announcing your return to Theleria.

You were leaving.

"Your majesty?" He ignored Jessica.

Too dumbstruck and stunned to actually say something. That sapped completely all reminiscing anger out of his body, only to be replaced by something he was rarely acquainted with. Despair and fear.

You were leaving.

The thought at first wouldn't have fazed him in the slightest, he'd just go back to his own duties and forget about you in a span of days. But now that he got to share something so important with you such as his vision for his people and open up more about himself, letting you go would have to be the most stupidest of things he could ever do.

"Get me this woman..." He snapped his fingers repeatedly to himself trying to remember the name, "Lucille."

Jessica had to blink a couple of times before speaking "Beg your pardon?"

"Lucille. The princess most trusted maiden." He repeated as he reread the paper, "Send a letter to Theleria asking for her, get a group of four to guard her. I need that woman in Arachne as soon as possible."

"Right?... Is there anything else?"

"Get a room ready for her too. As soon as she's here I wanna know. Keep it a secret though. Let me know when you intercept the princess' letter to the Queen."

Jessica's eyes softened and nodded with a small smile as she left, his scribes would come up with the letter and in matter of hours, the messenger was already galloping through.

It took your tears and ink smeared in the paper to bring him back.

----

As much as you wanted to cry and hide from the world, you knew that giving in the righteous feeling of sadness wouldn't be the right thing to do.

Every time you woke up, prayed to not see him, to keep him away from you. And so far the universe or whoever above listened.

You still wanted to leave some knowledge behind before returning home. You spent your days teaching, but not in the lab.

You chose to go to the hospital instead, and see the treatments for yourself. Some effective, and others not so much.

It kept you busy and grounded as it also gave you a small taste of royal duties

And it was good. It kept you away from the ever constant thoughts that awaited for you to give into them, to plague and hunt your mind.

So far it had helped, You barely spent your days in the castle anyways, Peter always tailed behind, keeping you safe, but even then, you spoke with him when needed. It made it easier to detach from everything that rendered Arachne.

The letter was sent soon enough, and hopefully within a couple of days you'd get a reply.

Not only you missed your home but Lucille. The only one you trusted now. Soon you'll be home, away from the kingdom that brought you nothing but a few moments of joy yet so much pain.

Now you understood why the kingdom was feared. It's power to inflict such pain and suffering not only through blades and weapons wasn't to be underestimated. And you learned it the bad way.

You could almost taste freedom. Just a couple of days more and you'll be back home. There was so many things you wanted to share, so much to tell and write with your own students.

If you weren't at the hospital, you were in your room. Like the beginning of everything. Slowly rotting away, until your mother would scoop you up and save you. She refused to have her story repeated on you.

Queen Dhalia knew when to press and when to step aside. And she promised you to find a way to keep the kingdom safe. You'd be fine.

With a deep breath, you sat on the desk you had been pouring your memories into and grabbed a paper and your pen.

Ready to break your engagement with Miguel through a letter.

----

Lucille could only stare at Miguel for what it felt like forever. His order had left her speechless.

Tell me everything you know about her.

Simple as that.

Lucille was five years older than you, she had been your confidant, your friend through thick and thin, and also the one that helped Queen Dhalia to raise you and train you in the medical arts.

And now, the most powerful man of the continent sat before her, asking about you in order to come up with a plan to get you back.

"Why don't you just apologize, my lord?"

"She refuses me. I tried to explain, but... she refused to be addressed even."

"Rightfully so." Lucille mouthed.

His eyes narrowed at her words, but he could do nothing but accept them. You avoided him like the plague. In fact, he hadn't seen you in a week now.

"Having me retrieved from my homeland in order to be spilling her secrets, for you to gain her favor again seems not only excessive, but frightening if I'm honest."

"And I apologize. But the princess is to remain here."

With me.

Lucille sighed and watched him.

"She only wanted you to be honest ever since the beginning, my lord. I truly will never understand why you men make it so complicated when it's the simplest things a woman ask of you."

"I hurt her."

"Very much, yes. It'll be useless of me to tell you all you wanna know, if you don't apologise."

"Santa Muerte, mujer... what part of she refuses me, haven't you understood yet?"

"The part you skip for your own convenience? The truth?"

Miguel snapped his head at Lucille so fast his neck almost sprained, glaring both in surprise and anger. How dared she put him in his place.

"You're talking to a king, lady Lucille. Be mindful of your words."

Lucille nodded, bowing her head in a quick yet dismissive motion. Thelerian women were truly something else.

"I'm aware that my words upset you, my lord and I apologize for it. But In truth, there isn't much I can do."

"What do you mean? You were there with her when Queen Dhalia offered me her hand."

Lucille sighed, defeated.

"Neither of you were subtle in the slightest."

"And bringing me here when she's probably packing up for leaving is also subtle because?"

Miguel pursed his lips, getting a hint of where you had gotten the attitude from. You carried a bit of those you loved, close.

"Touché."

Lucille smirked and spoke again.

"You already know the only way hou can fix this is asking her forgiveness."

Miguel kept shaking his head. Neither of them seemed to cave in, but Lucille sighed.

"But if you believe that getting me to talk to her will fix this situation, then I see what I can do, I don't promise anything though."

His shoulders slumped as he sat before Lucille across the desk "Having her agree to a hearing is more than enough for me. I will apologize."

"Good. Know that doing this feels like I'm betraying her trust already. But you seem true to your intentions and that's enough for me to try and talk some sense into her. You'll let her go in case she rejects you again, right?"

His brow quirked, curious and a tad annoyed. "You seem convinced I'll get my hopes crushed."

"It's not out of spite for hurting my Princess I assure you, your majesty. When something gets into her head nothing can get her out of it. Not even I."

Miguel watched her. Probably in her early thirties, plump body shape, sharp face that only matched her hazel feline look and dark blonde curls.

Lucille regarded him with the Thelerian look. A gaze Miguel had learned to understand as a 'Truth or deceit, I'll know about it anyways.'

Unwavering, slow blinks, deep and soul searching that not only weighed words but judged silently without even actually intending to. It unnerved him. Even more when you did it. He had witnessed such stare when he invited you at the council's meeting.

"Have you disposed off your mistress already, my lord?"

Miguel nodded, and this brought nothing but surprise to your friend.

"Seems times have changed. That gives me an idea."

Miguel gestured for her to continue.

"Have you heard about our Thelerian holiday, the Festival of Embers?"

"Vaguely."

"We use such day to remember our fallen, it's also the day to remember Prince Emmett's funeral. It's a holiday dedicated to honor and remember, but also heal."

His brow quirked again.

"You see, as most Thelerian visit the cemeteries, some leave a small offers in their loved ones grave's. Mostly potions and medicines for those that can't reach the main cities for aid."

"Your point is?" His tone irked

"You can use the holiday to rekindle with the princess. She'll appreciate it so."

Miguel seemed to ponder her words. And still he was at lost on what to do. He smacked his lips before speaking again

"How does she celebrate it?"

Lucille smiled "The Princess usually goes to a meaningful place to her, lights up a little fire and burns a letter. In it is written whatever thing she wants to forget. Quite simple, but it brings her comfort."

"It shall be done."

"Then you better get your letter written soon. The festival is in two days. I must ask though, your highness."

"Hm?" Miguel straightened up as he rummaged through his desk, in search of paper.

"Why did you keep that woman all this time?"

He rolled his eyes as he resumed his search, speaking a bir curt. "I bid you a good evening, Lady Lucille."

She chuckled, pleased at his reluctance. After all you were the only one he owed explanations to.

"Likewise, your highness."

----

The loud and maddening shrieks from Baron Darko could be felt through the skies.

He cursed, panted a bit more, recovering his breath only to have it escaping again with his maudlin and desperate cries.

His family was gone. Like his home as there was nothing but ash, soot and debris before him.

Fire had consumed everything, part of the structure collapsed within, leaving a massive hole in the second floor. Black and jagged columns were imprinted on the white stony walls.

Darko's boots crunched over the tiny fragments of wood and stone as he frantically searched for anyone that remained in a piece, not really caring if his fingers blistered or splintered. But not even that was granted to him.

He found none, not even the fabric pieces of dresses, nothing.

Jessica stepped closer as the man folded over to cry and mourn, she held the small urn with Dana's ashes and placed it next to him.

"No... No! Get it away from me!"

He scrambled on the floor away from her, slithering through the dirt and debris.

"This was Dana's doing."

"Shut up!"

Baron Darko spat, everything he held dear was now gone. All because you had came between Dana and Miguel. You were the culprit of what laid before his bleary eyes.

All his descendants were gone. Wiped away in the blink of an eye. How could the king do it?

Jessica put the ashes next to him and turned on her back, leaving him on his own. With the exception of a guard.

Tears and snot rolled down and his weathered face, pain oozed out of every pore of his skin. Smothering his anxiety with something so raw and persistent. Rage.

His blood boiled as he slammed his fist nonstop on the floor, to then slam Dana's urn into the ruins of his home. An ashy cloud surrounded him for a moment.

"They'll pay... Dana."

His daughter. His pride and everything that rendered The D'Angelos. His triumph card to get him closer to the throne.

Or so he had believed for so long his delusions had affected Dana and the rest of his family.

He always believed Dana would make a great Queen. But now, plans had drastically changed.

Miguel was making an example out of him and what happens when people didn't pay attention to his warnings.

But this time, he'd prove not only the King himself but you, what he was capable of. If he was the last remaining, it only meant for him to be the chosen one to see the O'Hara and Blanchard bloodline fall.

A pair of light brown eyes watched him.

"Leave me alone!"

Darko roared but the young guard only advanced to him, Even though Arachne's uniform covered him, his heart and mind was elsewhere. There was a purple and green collar he wore around his slender neck. The braids hung loose behind his head as his soul piercing eyes bore into the distraught elder man.

"Wanna join us?"

Darko did nothing but spit at his feet. The boy looked unamused but stood next to him, repeating the question, impatient.

"You wanna join us, old man?"

Darko looked up as the braided boy pulled out a small scroll, still sealed in wax.

"W-What's that?" Darko immediately sobered up, cleaning his face with whatever means. The boy just scrunched mildly his face in disgust as he placed the scroll on his wet hand.

"Kingpin's invitation." His tone unamused, impassive with a tiny nit of apprehension in it.

Darko's breath hitched upon realizing the boy's position. A double agent.

"Are you in or not? I've got things to do"

Darko nodded.

"Then read that. We'll know if you break the rules."

"We?... Wait! How do I know I could trust you?" Although the idea of having double agents seemed preposterous, he knew the scheme wasn't impossible. Much less with a man like Kingpin at the front.

"The king ordered to wipe your family. I was in charge of Lady Dana's cremation. The king killed her by snapping her neck."

"Do you know why?"

"Lady Dana spoke to the princess. I don't know the details but it was enough to have the king angry."

"That Thelerian whore..." Darko hissed, "Count me in."

The boy nodded and turned on his back, and advanced towards his horse.

"Hey! wait! What's your name?"

"G."

Darko furrowed his brows in confusion, "G?"

"Morales. Needless to say that you'll know what will happen to you if this comes out to light."

Darko just nodded, letting the young boy leave. He wasn't older than sixteen. But ages were little when a dethroning was ahead.

----

Taglist:

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@maomaimao @m4dyy @migoharawife

@mcmiracles @xxvelvetxxxx @arrozyfrijoles23 @del-ightfulling

#miguel o'hara #t writes✨#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #Crimson Crown #dark!miguel o'hara

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mvltisstuff · 10 months

Note

Hi! Could I please request a 911 fic, please? Reader is Buck and Maddie’s little sister and is dating Eddie. She goes for a hike and falls, maybe just like a broken leg and concussion... but she has to call 911 and is freaking out a little and Maddie does her best to calm her down til the 118 gets there. Then lots of fluff with the guys. Maybe they show up at her apartment the next day to help her out with things and binge some tv with her. Thank you in advance!

sos - e.d

summary: request

eddie diaz x buckley!reader

a/n: tysm for the request, hope you enjoy 💗

y/n thought it was common sense to not disturb the wildlife in the trail. there were signs everywhere, you had to be blind to miss them. blind or stupid, at least. she also knew that the group of teenage girls had ignored the sign, trying to run after the deer and scare them away.

it was her one day off. it wasn’t a huge day to go to the hiking paths, so she went when it wasn’t busy. however, the mob of juveniles came across like they were the only people to exist, shoving anyone and anything out of their way. y/n had fallen victim in their path of destruction. she had been firmly distracted on the panicked deer, being able to outrun their pictures and harassment.

stupidly, her food stumbled on a pit, twisting her ankle as she fell down the rocky hill. she felt the massive rock jab her head, leaving a pitchy ringing in her ears. the fall had turned her leg in ways that it shouldn’t turn. finally, after what felt like minutes of falling, she landed on her back on the dusty floor of the woods. she lay there panting for a few moments, hoping someone would have seen her fall, but there wasn’t anyone but the excited shouting of the girls. she basically had no other choice but to fish her phone out of her pocket. she was so discombobulated and facing pain that she could only manage to type the three numbers.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the voice of y/n’s older sister came through the phone, making y/n’s heart race in relief.

“maddie! oh, jesus,” she groans. “so, funny story, i just fell on my hike and i bashed my head on a rock, and then my leg did a weird thing and now it hurts like a bitch so i don’t r-“

“y/n?” she could tell the panicked voice of her sister. “wha- ok, first, tell me what trail you’re on.”

“i’m on the northeast trail at brush canyon,” y/n informs, despite the throbbing ache in her skull.

“alright, i’m sending units to you now, but stay on the phone with me?”

“i will. god, those girls were just running like maniacs an-“

“hey, hey, calm down, y/n. you’re going to be fine, just don’t get too riled up, yeah? police and rescue are 3 minutes away from your location now.”

“thank you, maddie,” y/n says into the phone, starting to calm down and grow more tired.

“of course, that’s why i’m here. the police should pull up in a minute, i love you,”

“i love you too, maddie,” maddie hangs up the phone, leaving her to buck and eddie now. they came to check the safety of the trail after hearing about the pits, and the concerns of people tripping and tumbling down the hills. when buck saw his little sister on the ground, his heart stopped.

“y/n?” he shouted, sliding down the hill and next to y/n’s body.

“heyyy, buck,” she says, being given pain medicine by chimney. “oh, i fell by the way.”

“eddie!” he yells, calling for her boyfriend as he walks down to see her too.

“what the hell happened?” he asks, completely alarmed by her state on the ground. “hey, are you ok?”

“splendid. not the best hike, but i’ll just leave a bad review. and someone tell those bitches to stop running after the deer!”

“alright, she’s fine,” buck laughs, getting his sisters personality back as they lift her onto the stretcher. bobby allows buck and eddie to travel with her to the hospital, as her eyes close in the back.

“i’m not sleeping, i’m just resting my eyes.”

“y/n, you probably should sleep,” buck tells her.

“yeah, baby, you hit your head pretty good,” eddie adds. he smiles at y/n’s scrunched eyebrows and shut eyes as she just continues to fall asleep one minutes later.

the doctors had confirmed that she did fracture her patella, and would be limited in movement for a few weeks. she had a light concussion from the impact on her head, but she’d heal perfectly fine. it wasn’t really anything to worry about.

she returned back to her apartment with maddie, helping her carry her things back in with the crutches. “thanks, maddie.”

“don’t thank me, just please be careful now,” she begs. “i don’t want you to push yourself like evan did and get all worked up.”

“i’m fine, maddie, i swear.”

“ok,” she concludes. “i have to go to work, but if you need anything in the world, call me or buck or eddie and i’m sure someone will help you. are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“maddie, get out of my apartment and go to work. i am fine!”

“alright, i love you. i’ll see you soon,” she says, shutting the door behind her as y/n sits on the couch, leaning her new crutches against it. she finally gets settled watching some old random reruns from tlc, getting invested in it when she realizes that she has to eat something with her new medicine. she tries to figure out something, when she hears an abrupt knock on her door. she limps over with her crutches, revealing a grinning buck and eddie by her door with a bag of food.

“we come with food!” buck smiles. “your favorite! cheesecake factory!”

“you guys did not have to do this,” she says, letting them come in and placing a kiss on eddie’s lips.

“well, we wanted you to have anything you need,” eddie tells her.

“i appreciate, i really do.”

“good, so what do you need done?” eddie asks. y/n thinks about what she could get away with, and manages to make them clean her entire kitchen. they did it willingly, so it’s nothing but a win for her.

“perfect! now, come eat with me and watch this show i found,” she beams, crutching over to the couch and placing the bag of food in front of her on the coffee table.

“what are we watching?” buck asks, starting to crack open his takeout box.

“i’m not really sure, some guy making cakes in new jersey,” she presses the volume as the voice of the man comes through the speakers. she sits back with her plate of food, looking at her two favorite boys in the world.

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chronicowboy · 1 year

Text

Eddie doesn't even bother waiting for the ambulance to come to a complete halt before he's jumping out of the cab, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine rumbling. He barely hears the click of the handbrake over the blood rushing in his ears, but he couldn't give less of a fuck about a runaway ambulance when the doors open.

As Chim rolls the gurney out, Hen, shaky and ragged, shouts,

"Switch!"

Eddie doesn't think. He doesn't make a conscious decision. His body just knows what to do.

Its instinct to interlock his fingers and push all of his body weight into Buck's chest. Its instinct to climb onto the rail of the gurney, so Chim and Hen can push him along as he keeps up chest compressions. Its instinct to ignore the tears burning at the corners of his eyes and whisper broken pleas to Buck's broken heart.

Its an instinct as natural as Eddie's desire to protect Christopher from every miniscule bit of pain the world throws at him. Its an instinct as natural as Eddie's urge to throw himself up an electrified ladder for Buck. Its an instinct as natural as breathing.

So, Eddie pushes.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Thinks about a stupid pink and yellow heart with a smiley face and it imagines it under his hands as the first rib breaks.

"Come on, Buck," he hisses. "Don't you dare do this to me."

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Buck kept the blood sealed in Eddie's body when a bullet tore through his shoulder, the least he can do to return the favour is keep Buck's heart beating.

He'd do it for the rest of his life if he had to.

If Buck trusted him with it, wanted him to have it, Eddie would hold Buck's heart close for eternity.

Given the choice, Eddie would carry that heart with him forever.

Its another instinct that hits him then. One he can't satisfy, but the urge is there all the same.

The urge to rip Buck's heart from his chest and tear open his own ribcage so he can nestle Buck's heart right next to his.

It'd be safe there.

Eddie would make sure of it.

And if it just so happened that Buck's heart refusing to beat stopped Eddie's too, well then, so be it.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Another rib breaks.

"I'm sorry," Eddie whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Bobby rattles his stats off to the doctor's swarming around them, but Eddie doesn't hear it anymore than the faint ringing that's been echoing around his head since the lightning threw him to the asphalt.

Its always asphalt, he thinks bitterly. When one of us is hurt and the other can't reach them, its always asphalt sticking to our goddamn skin.

A hand lands on his shoulder, but he shrugs them off.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Sir," the clinical tone raises his hackles, but he doesn't stop pushing. "Sir, let us take over, please."

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Please, Buck."

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

Another rib breaks, and Eddie imagines the bone spearing Buck's still heart.

The bile that rises in his throat tastes a lot like bloody words left unsaid.

"Sir!"

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Eddie." Its Chimney's voice.

"Eddie, let them take over." Hen.

"Eddie," Bobby calls out. Its the broken voice of his captain that makes his rhythm falter for the first time.

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Eddie, stop. That's an order."

A thousand ugly words spill onto his tongue, a thousand scathing comments about dead sons and giving up, but Eddie bites them back and instead:

He pushes and pushes and pushes.

"Buck, please."

He freezes, hands on Buck's chest. He thought...

A thump.

An unsteady, weak thump.

But a thump all the same.

Eddie lets his crew peel him from Buck's limp body, lets the doctors roll him away. He steps forward, goes to follow them, but...

The world begins to turn black as the doors swing shut.

The last thing Eddie hears is Buck's voice echoing in his head,

We don't go past the glass doors.

#sami rambles #ok frrrrrrr im supposed to be working on my coma dream wip but i needed to write about eddie and buck's heart so #here have whatever this is #dont like this half as much as the chris one but oh well #911 spoilers #911 show #911 fox #911 spec #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #buck x eddie #buddie fic #buck x eddie fic #buddie fanfic #buck x eddie fanfic #911 speculation #911 spec fic

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canonicallyobserving911 · 2 months

Text

Buck & Eddie: Eddie was M.I.A. and Buck was too.

The video above includes the scenes from S6 where Buck and Eddie were either missing or weren't mentioned even though they should have been.

During Season 6, Eddie was M.I.A. (missing in action) from several scenes even though he should have been present and Buck was either not mentioned or he was missing too even though he should have been present.

While I was watching 6x4 when it originally aired, I noticed Buck wasn’t on a call while the rest of the team was at work and as 6A progressed, it became a pattern. For the duration of 6A and well into 6B, Buck’s or Eddie’s absences became even more noticeable and they were so prevalent that they were JARRING AND GLARINGLY OBVIOUS. By the end of 6A, viewers were wondering what happened. The showrunner (KR) said in an interview that they were trying new pairings which was fine but hindsight is usually 20/20 and when I started analyzing the scenes that didn’t include one of them, it kind of seemed like she may have been telling a half truth. I mentioned how storylines and pairings were affected in a post I did in November 2022 but now I believe their absences or the lack of mentioning the other one was INTENTIONAL.

Buck and/or Eddie not being present bothered me and I wanted to know why but I didn’t research it until recently because of the way season 6 ended. With the way TM (the OG showrunner) has been releasing and rereleasing photos of Buddie and Bathena for the last few weeks, I believed their absences in season 6 became too glaring for me to continue ignoring them. For Buck and Eddie to be drastically removed from each other’s lives had to be on purpose and IMO, it was done so the audience would realize how them not being with each other didn’t make sense. Let’s be real, regardless as to whether a viewer ships Buck and Eddie as a romantic couple, their presence in each other’s lives and the Buckley-Diaz family’s dynamic has become a staple on the show and when they’re not included, people notice. Everyone knows how close they are so for them to be separated and viewers along with journalists writing about it was perplexing to say the least.

Before I delve into this, please understand these are MY OBSERVATIONS AND INTERPRETATIONS of the things I noticed during season 6, therefore, it’s ok if someone doesn’t agree. Everyone interprets media differently so it’s ok for two differences of an opinion to coexist without someone trying to force their thoughts onto the other person.

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

I believe it all started with the scene below when Eddie asked, “Buck! Where the hell you going?” because their absences started right after it and they continued through the early part of 6B.

In 6x4, Buck was off work while Bobby, Chimney and Eddie were all at work but there was no explanation given as to why Buck was off. Everyone knows Buck loves being at the firehouse especially since he filed a lawsuit to get back to the team after the ladder truck explosion (whether he was right or wrong in filing the lawsuit will not be discussed here. It happened more than four years ago and I’ve moved on from it). He wasn’t sick so it’s not like he used a sick day but maybe he used a personal day or he used some PTO time but either way, the audience wasn’t told why he wasn’t with the 118.

He went to Hen’s house to discuss Connor's request for him to be his sperm donor but since she was on leave, no explanation was needed for why she wasn’t at work. Reminder, Buck wasn’t on leave so he could have gone to her house to talk to her after their shift ended but he didn’t. His absence was noticeable especially since at the beginning of the episode, he was sitting at the other end of the table alone and away from the group while Eddie, Chimney and Hen talked about Eddie disciplining Chris for skipping his science club meetings.

In 6x5, Eddie took Hoover the dog to Buck’s loft but the audience didn't see it. It was the only handoff that wasn't shown in CANON but the question is, why? What was the issue with the audience seeing Eddie give Buck the dog ? The only thing that makes narrative sense is they wanted viewers to not see it so they would notice. Interesting!

In 6x7, Eddie didn't mention Buck at all when he told Felisa about Chris being lost in the Tsunami but once again the question is why? Everyone who watched 3x1-3x3 knows Eddie took Chris to visit "His Buck" that day and Eddie showed Hen and Chimney a selfie of Buck and Chris while they were on a call. In the photo, Buck and Chris were at breakfast earlier eating pancakes. Also, after the first wave hit, we know Buck saved Chris and they got separated so Eddie’s scene with Felisa was another glaringly obvious one where Buck wasn’t mentioned and it had to have been done for a reason. Reminder, Eddie told Felisa “My wife died… and six months later my son was on the pier when the Tsunami hit.” Well, Chris wasn’t there alone so 👀.

In 6x8, Buck was missing when Eddie and Chris were getting ready for Chris' first school dance. Carla was there but it was kind of off putting and it seemed like she shouldn’t have been the one Eddie was talking to the same way she shouldn’t have been talking to him in 5x10 when he was preparing to leave the 118. If they didn’t want Buck there, then it could have easily been a father and son moment between Eddie and Chris especially since she didn't do anything but say she thought it was Chris' first crush after they went into the kitchen. It was only one of the two episodes she was in for the entire season, so what gives?

Later in the episode, Eddie ended up telling Buck and the 118 about it anyway and based on Buck’s reaction, it's likely Chris had already told Buck about his crush (post linked here).

In 6x10, Eddie was present and at the firehouse while Buck and Chimney cleaned the fire engine and the ladder truck. He was on the floor throwing a baseball with Hen.

But Eddie was missing from the call when a lightning strike hit the car and the woman gave birth but reminder, the scene happened after he was AT THE FIREHOUSE with everyone else. It's possible he could have been man behind but the point is he was missing. Also, why was he missing? Buck helped Bobby with the baby and Bobby had to call Hen and Chimney over for assistance which means Eddie’s help as a medic was needed for all three victims but it was kind of like the show wanted him to be absent so the viewers would notice and we did.

In 6x11, Eddie was only in Buck’s coma dream at the beginning when Daniel told him the next time he goes up a ladder, he should have someone to have his back and Buck said he did. Other than that initial interaction, Eddie WASN'T there and his absence was glaringly obvious.

In 6x13, Eddie was M.I.A. twice. The first time was after a call that he went to with Buck and Hen. It was the one where the couple misplaced a "toy".

Chimney wasn't on the call with them but when they were leaving work and Buck was calling all the women he slept with to see if he satisfied them (which was 🙄 I don’t even have words), Eddie wasn't there but Chimney was. But the question once again is why? Could it be the show was making a point since Buck had just had a conversation with a victim’s husband about an article he read that stated 80% of women aren’t satisfied by their partners (related post about Buck’s woodworking skills linked here)?

In 6x13, Eddie wasn’t at the loft while Buck and Chris were baking cookies and it appears to be a call back to 5x3 when AF was caring for Chris during the blackout (related post linked here). Reminder, AF left a mess in Eddie’s kitchen but Buck’s kitchen was clean and organized while him and Chris were baking cookies for Chris’ whole class. They even talked about cooking the steaks Buck and Eddie won while they played poker for dinner.

What was the reason for all of this?

Initially I, like many others was pissed at the lack of Buck and Eddie, Buck, Eddie and Chris and Buckley-Diaz Family scenes in 6A. I’m still annoyed by it but like I mentioned above, hindsight is 20/20 so it’s possible the show was trying to get the audience to realize how important they are in each other’s lives by omitting them from specific and important scenes.

Did they do a good job of illustrating it? NO!

They could have done it differently like a lot of other things but the season ended messily and by then it was too late to change it.

The point of this post is whenever Buck and Eddie are absent, it's noticeable and it can't be denied. KR said they were mixing up the dynamics (related post linked here) but that can't be it because in 6x9 Hen ended up talking to her best friend Chimney about the way she was feeling about Denny wanting to meet Nathaniel after Eddie and Buck dropped off their four-way call, so she wasn't telling the whole truth.

Could their absences be a coincidence? No. Why?

Because in 6x7 Athena said she didn't believe in them and in 5x17 Karen said once is a mistake, two times is a coincidence and three times is a pattern. Well, their absences happened more than three times so Buck and Eddie missing in action from each other's lives was a pattern in season 6 and it seems to have been done on purpose.

It appears the omittances of Buck and Eddie from specific scenes in season 6 was in preparation for season 7 but the question is, will anything come of them? Who knows except for the showrunner (TM), the writers, producers and the actors and actresses so we shall see.

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #the buckley diaz family #buckley diaz family #911 on abc #911 abc #911 meta #911 season 6 speculation #911 season 7 #911 season 7 speculation #911 speculation

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roanniom · 1 year

Note

Feeling festive so: Steve being an absolute dork (and a little bit of a horndog) about mistletoe kisses 🫠 Steve making stupid jokes about “unwrapping his present” while reaching to take off your matching Christmas pjs that he pretends to hate 🫠 Steve and you being more than fashionably late to the holiday party because you just looked to good in your green velvet dress 🫠 I’m sad now

🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄

Stevie, Baby 🎶

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ ONLY, strip tease, dry humping, PIV / unprotected sex

“I won’t wear them,” he says definitively.

“But Steeeevie,” you whine, twirling around so he can see the garish green and red button down sleep shirt and matching pants that you were wearing from all angles. “Why not?!”

Steve frowns at the matching pjs in his hand.

“It’s just so…so…dorky,” he finishes weakly.

“So you think your girlfriend is dorky?” you ask, hands on your hips. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Right now? Yes. Yes, very much.”

You stare at him really hard for a minute, before the Christmas album that’s on in the background clicks to the next song and you get an idea.

“Santa, baby. Just slip a sable under the tree, for me,” you sing along to the music, swaying back and forth, emphasizing the swing of your hips. Steve’s eyes widen for a second before his brow furrows skeptically, arms crossing over his chest.

“Is this supposed to be less dorky?” he asks over your singing.

“Been an awful good girl,” you continue the lyric, unbuttoning the first few buttons on your pj top to reveal the bright red lace bra underneath, pushing your tits together just right.

Steve’s jaw drops on the floor.

“I’m sorry, what?” he breathes, hands unconsciously reaching out for you, but you step back out of his reach, climbing up to stand on the couch, your back to him .

“Santa, baby. So hurry down the chimney tonight.” You slide the pj top off your shoulders to hang in the crooks of your elbows, exposing the straps of your bra and your bare back beneath. You wink at him over your shoulder and are pleased to find him staring at you dumbfounded.

“Santa, baby. A ‘54 convertible, too, light blue.” You mime turning a steering wheel back and forth, swiveling back and forth at your hips. “I’ll wait up for you, dear.” You beckon him forward with a crook of your finger and Steve steps up to you, a slow smirk beginning to form as his facial expression makes it clear that you’ve gotten your point across. You hook your finger under his chin to force him to look away from your swaying tits and up at your face. “Santa, baby. So hurry down the chimney tonight.”

“Okay fine. So dorky isn’t the word I’d use to describe you,” he says begrudgingly as you step down from the couch and around him. You ignore his words and brush his hands off when he tries to grab at your waist. He huffs in frustration and follows you to the doorway of your shared bedroom.

“Think of all, the fun I missed,” you sing, draping yourself dramatically and sensually against the door frame. Steve joins you on the threshold and leans against the opposite side of the frame, folding his arms and humoring you with a long suffering smile.

“Think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed.” You slink up to him and walk your fingers up from his chest to his lips. They part automatically and you feel him take in a sharp breath.

“Next year I could be just as good,” you sing, getting up on your tippy toes and pulling him down to you, bringing your lips close together. Just as he slides his eyes shut in expectation of the kiss, lips puckering just slightly, you pull away, leaving him leaning to chase you.

“Hey!” Steve pouts, watching you saunter to the bed.

“If you check off my Christmas list,” you giggle along to the lyrics. You hold your hands out to him and he takes them, letting you pull him over to stand in front of the bed.

“Santa, baby. I want a yacht and really that’s not a lot,” you shake your head teasingly, pushing him down on the mattress. Steve bounces and sits up straight to watch you.

“Jesus…” he mutters. But he can’t keep pretending to be annoyed when you stand in front of him, pulling the pj top fully off and moving it across your chest as if it were a feather boa in a cabaret show.

“Been an angel all year,” you sing, tossing the shirt to drape over Steve’s face. He pulls it off and can no longer suppress a grin.

“Not sure ‘Angel’ is what I’d call you but ok…”

“Santa, baby. So hurry down the chimney tonight,” you step between Steve’s legs where he sits up on the bed and run your hands through his fluffy hair.

“Alright fine I get the point,” Steve begins but you go right into the next verse.

“Santa, honey. One little thing I really need.” You grab the pj top from where it was laying on the bed beside him and put it behind his neck, holding onto it on both sides. “The deed to a platinum mine.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve mumbles, rolling his eyes. They widen, however, when you use the top to pull his face into your red lace-clad breasts.

“Santa, baby. So hurry down the chimney tonight,” you sing out, dropping down to straddle his lap.

You’re immediately met with the feeling of Steve’s obvious erection beneath you. You raise an eyebrow at him and he shrugs as if to say ‘what do you expect.’ You begin gyrating your hips, making him groan.

“Santa, cutie,” you coo along to the music. Steve’s hands grip your hips, wrinkling the fabric of the cheesy pj pants he’d criticized. “And fill my stocking with the duplex and checks.”

Steve wrenches you closer and mouths at your throat.

“I’ll fill your stocking alright,” he says against your skin. You squeal with a laugh, pushing at him to give you space to continue singing, bouncing in his lap with more fervor.

“Sign your x on the line,” you sing, breathless now. Steve groans as the friction becomes even better.

“C’mon baby…”

“Santa, cutie. And hurry down the chimney tonight.” You suck a mark into his neck, fingers gripping his hair, during the instrumental break between verses.

“Christ…” Steve breathes, bucking his hips up into yours.

“Come and trim my Christmas tree,” you sing, finding it harder to stay on tempo as you begin grinding faster, chasing the delicious feeling of rubbing your aching clothed clit against his erection. “With some decorations bought at Tiffany’s.”

“How long is this fucking song?!” Steve cries out, scooting back further up the bed and yanking you along with him. You laugh but keep singing.

“I really do believe in you.” You push Steve down so that his back presses against the mattress and crawl on top of him, grinding down.

“Fuck.”

“Let’s see if you believe in me.” You slide your hand down the length of his chest, abdomen, and then close it over the bulge in his sweatpants which presses between your thighs.

“Okay! Okay, fuck!” Steve cries out. His hands grip your waist with bruising strength. “I’ll wear the fucking pjs.”

“You will?” you ask brightly, missing the next verse for the first time since the song began. Steve looks up at with his tousled hair and flush-splotched skin.

“Can I fuck you first and then wear them at least?” he negotiates. You laugh and climb off of him, much to his dismay. “Wait wait wait. Or I can fuck you with them on, whatever you want! Christ.”

You slide the pj pants and your underwear down in one fluid motion before climbing back on top of Steve, maintaining eye contact as you work the waistband of his sweatpants down. Exposing his hard cock to the air and your hungry gaze.

“Oh Stevie…” you hum as you slide your wet cunt up and down the underside of his length. “You can wear the pjs afterwards.” After unhooking your bra and tossing it away, you lean down to bring your lips to his ear just as you snake a hand between you to line his tip up with your entrance. “But I’ll be the one fucking you, Stevie baby.”

🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄

#steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things smut #steve harrington discourse

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foursaints · 2 days

Note

can we please hear about your sirius i’m captivated by their childhood trauma and tgirl swag

ofc! i don’t speak as much about sirius (at least compared to the slytherins) bc i don’t have the most concrete idea of her yet, but there are definitely pieces there that feel very real to me…

i primarily consider sirius in terms of fallen angels. i think she’s living a fallen angel’s narrative. to me, the black family dynamic is primarily made of insulation (against the outside world) & ignorance (of what lies beyond their bubble). it’s not like the rosiers’ actual, physical undersocialization, but more like a charmed “bubble” that the black children are living in even when participating in society. one that’s made up of privileges and rules and traditions that only apply to them. and it’s beautiful & terrible, at once.

being someone who escapes this could feel a bit like being unceremoniously dropped from heaven to an unfamiliar earth. sirius has to realize the world is bigger than what they were told, and that everything isn’t as simple as they were taught. but they were brave enough to realize this on their own, and startlingly young. they’re really unique.

i think sirius is learning to be Their Own Human Being more than anything, that’s their central struggle, like an angel that has violently plummeted to earth and is forced to learn the customs & rituals of regular human life. her transness is important to me because i think it ties into that idea: of inventing yourself, making yourself fully your own.

to me, her infamous jacket is an oversized brown leather bomber. she’s charming and popular or whatever, but is privately bewildered at the attention (doesn’t register it half the time, since she’s used to it) and too much fawning disgruntles her. super androgynous, and the gender question is rarely outright addressed. smokes like a chimney. wears lots of mismatching socks & has a tendency to want to give New Life to unique secondhand shit. my sirius tends to dress pretty masc, but there’ll always be like pigtail braids with ribbons.

when remus looks at her, he’s fully convinced he’s looking at an angel. the things running through that man’s mind are CRIMINAL. historic.

#a #THIS GOT SO LONG IM SORRY LMFAOOOO #i had way more thoughts than i anticipated. ANYWAY JAMES HAVING A GIRLBESTFRIEND IS SOOOO REAL

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cheerycherrycandy-resurrected · 5 days

Text

What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)

Chapter 3

Dew feels guilty, Rain screws up.

Rating: M now, to be safe Content: side character death, minor descriptions of violence, flashbacks, peril Words: 2253

Link to all chapters with associated tags: Tumblr | AO3

hi hi @revengeghoulette here's your alert! and @everybodyshusband you seemed very keen haha!

Read below, or on AO3!

Dew stomped along the path surrounding their fields. The warm sun overhead taunted him, it's rays full of promise and life while he felt only cold and empty inside. He knew he'd been too harsh on Rain, deep down, but he'd have to be threatened with banishment to the pit to admit that. Dewdrop refused to allow himself to feel guilty; that was a slippery slope of self-hatred he knew he wouldn't be able to crawl back up from. He knew he could be short-tempered, and he harboured enough resentment of his own that it was bound to overflow into his actions.

Rain seemed to have had things so much easier than him though, it wasn't fair. From the day he arrived he had bonded with the others in a way Dew had struggled to. They would chitter and purr at Rain for the slightest thing, whereas they had remained suspicious of him for ages. Dew was self-aware enough however to realize that he hadn't helped his case by hissing and growling at his packmates for the smallest thing.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. Rain got a lot of leeway for being young, the others quick to write off his transgressions as ignorance rather than malice, but they forgot Dew was young too. Despite presenting himself as world-wise and experienced, he was closer in age to Rain than he was to any of the rest of his packmates. He'd worked hard to rewrite his time before Aether and Mountain found him, both the most difficult and most sheltered parts, but he couldn't erase their impact.

He continued his mission uphill, to the base of a large oak tree that overlooked their whole farm and surrounding area. Smoke curled from the chimneys of houses in the village in the distance, and a multicoloured patchwork of fields spread out around them. Following the path in the opposite direction, Dew could just make out the dark speck of Rain walking to Farmer Wilkins’. He was stubborn, not taking Dew's constant snipes to heart, Dew had to grudgingly respect that. He watched until Rain turned a corner and was lost from sight.

~~~~~~~

On the walk over, Rain was also enjoying the warm weather as he followed the stream. There was barely a cloud in the sky, the open blue expanse painted with faint white wisps reached as far as the eye could see. Rain could see why his help was needed: the summer had stretched on for several glorious months, and the ground beneath his feet was showing signs of cracking from lack of rainfall. A gentle breeze worked to sweep the cobwebs that still clung tightly to his dream and Dew's comments from his mind.

Arriving at the farm with sweat beginning to bead on his forehead from the heat, Rain was greeted by Farmer Wilkins, sat out on his porch. He was a jovial man, round and ruddy faced, with a vigour for life that defied his advancing age. Rain didn't know him well, but he was a regular down at the village tavern and always had a spare word or smile for Swiss when he passed by.

“Good mornin’, Rain! I didn’t expect to see you so soon, please, sit down. My daughter Marina’s preparing some elderflower cordial against this hot weather. We can wait ‘til you’re rested to begin!”

Rain awkwardly accepted the proffered seat on the porch bench, glad for the shaded spot after the heat of his walk. He heard light footsteps approaching, and looked up to see a young woman emerge from the cottage holding a tray of glasses and a jug of pale liquid.

Her dark hair fluttered around her pretty face in the breeze, and Rain gasped feeling as though he’d been shot in the chest: she was the spitting image of his childhood sweetheart. From the gentle wave in her ebony hair to the asymmetric dimples in her cheeks as she smiled at him in greeting, they could have been twins if not for her obvious humanity.

Noticing Rain’s slack-jawed stare, the farmer chuckled good-naturedly.

“Quite a looker, ain’t she Son! Don’t be getting any funny ideas, she’s engaged to the lad down the road. Childhood sweethearts, they were!”

Rain was struck by the similarities to his own previous life. In another world, his water ghoulette’s father could have spoken of him like that. Instead, Rain had the distinct impression that he had been glad to see Rain leave.

Feeling as though he was watching himself behind glass, Rain accepted a drink with shaky hands. Marina rolled her eyes at his stuttered thanks, but smiled kindly at him as she headed back inside. Luckily, the farmer seemed happy to keep the conversation moving all by himself, leaving Rain to nod in what he hoped were the appropriate places. He sipped his drink in an attempt to replace the moisture in his mouth, which was now as dry as sand. Moving his limbs to raise the glass, Rain felt like he was pulling at the strings of a marionette puppet.

Once Farmer Wilkins had exhausted his supply of one-sided small talk, the pair headed out to the fields, beginning with the one closest behind the house. Here, the corn grew luscious and tall: Mountain did a stellar job encouraging the crop earlier in the season. Rain had tagged along that day, watching as Mountain pressed his palms to the ground to imbue it with his own magical energy.

Now Rain stood in the field without the earth ghoul by his shoulder, feeling alone and detached. He sensed the eager eyes of the farmer watching him, the intense interest making Rain’s knees begin to tremble anxiously. He took a deep breath, and copied what he had done before with Mountain, what he had seen and heard Aether do a hundred times.

Raising his arms out in front of him, palms to the sky, Rain closed his eyes and called out,

“Ancient Spirits! Bless this land, that it be free from drought and pestilence.” he swept his arms around a bit, then turned his palms to the ground. “Gracious Earth, protect these bountiful crops so they may feed us another year.”

Rain winced at how fake it all felt, like he was just going through the motions, and the flowery language rang false in his ears. He cracked his eyes open and saw the farmer – along with half a dozen or so curious farmhands who had downed tools to stare – watching in barely concealed fascination. He squeezed his eyes shut again, waved his arms around a final time in what he hoped was a convincing manner, and went silent as he tried to connect with his element. Rain knew the others could control their power while talking and moving, but he still struggled without devoting his complete concentration to it.

He felt the motion of the water in the stream at the foot of the field, the weight of the droplets in the few scraps of cloud overhead. Flexing his fingers, Rain imagined drawing them in, encouraging them towards the field. He sensed the flowing rivulets of water from the creek begin to channel through the ground, moistening the dry soil around the roots of the crops. The clouds above thickened imperceptibly with the promise of future raindrops.

As Rain felt the water begin to do his bidding, he opened his eyes again to ensure that none of his changes were visible to the small audience of humans. From day one, Aether had instilled the value of plausible deniability into Rain. He insisted it was the most important part of using their elemental connections outside of ghoulish colonies, that they should never give the humans too much evidence of their power and should always leave them with a rational explanation.

As the light flooded his retinas, he saw her standing there: Marina was hovering behind her father's shoulder, watching Rain work with a curious smile and her uncannily familiar dimples. Rain choked on his breath as the sharp stab of longing for his lost future caused him to double over. The pain coursed through his veins and as it did so, Rain felt it cross over with his call to the water. Unbidden, he felt the shock and subsequent rush of emotions transfer into the water he was drawing in, reacting to the ache he had taught himself to supress.

The wisps of feathery clouds he had been coaxing to coalesce now slammed into each other as though pulled by a magnetic force. More water joined from seemingly nowhere, until the clouds hung dark grey and pregnant above the field. Unable to stop the flow of emotionally charged elemental power, Rain watched in horror as the water from the creek rose up, bursting its banks and rushing uphill in an unstoppable tidal wave of water. It reached higher than the stalks of corn, barrelling towards the assembled crowd and flattening the crops indiscriminately. He tried frantically to cut the connection and stop the flow, but with no success.

Rain's panic began to grow, only adding to the ferocity of the water, and the clouds took this as their sign to drop their contents onto those gathered below. The deluge of raindrops hit at the same time as the towering wall of water did, knocking Rain to his feet as he screamed out for the flood of both water and emotions to stop assaulting his body and mind. As the water covered his face, he felt his gills burst free and his glamour dissolve. Rain fought against the water as it dragged him further up the field and back towards the cottage.

To his horror, he saw a flash of dark hair dragged past him. The currents of his own creation slammed the girl against the stone wall of the farmhouse and pinned her there, suspended in a grotesque position, until eventually releasing her to crumple limply into the churning water below. Rain barely had time to process what he was seeing, before he heard a shattering of glass as another farmhand, a boy from the village who could barely have been fifteen, was thrown through the glass roof of a greenhouse. The rain that was still pouring down on them did nothing to dilute the obvious red of the blood spreading through the water.

The tidal wave finally retreated down the field, revealing the destruction left in its wake as it did so. The body of another farmhand emerged from the frothing stream, lifeless without the swirling of the water to animate it. Those remaining staggered to their feet, screaming out in terror. At seeing the carnage and bodies scattered across the field, they turned their anger on Rain. Feeling all the eyes on him, Rain took off running with no heed for where he was heading. Farmer Wilkins let out a howl of anguish as he cradled his daughter's mangled corpse, turning into a roar of anger directed at Rain. The farmhands left alive scrabbled for their abandoned tools scattered by the currents and gave chase, baying for Rain's blood.

As Rain hurled himself down the road, he realised too late that he was heading straight for the centre of town. The noise of the men chasing him attracted the attention of the occupants of the houses he fled past until a small mob was following him, figurative and literal pitchforks raised. Half-crazed, with fear threatening to paralyse him if he paused, Rain kept on running. Lungs burning, he kept pumping his legs as fast as they would go. His feet were now fully unglamoured and the excess webbing between his toes made his shoes feel too small. Every step was agony and yet he knew if he stopped, he was as good as dead.

Rain's mind started to swim, his actions and their consequences catching up with him making him feel dizzy and nauseous. With his tail now caught in his trousers, his balance was almost entirely gone. He felt his foot catch on a loose stone and as he went flying, he knew it was all over. Rain hit the sandy ground hard, all the breath knocked out of him. His eyes frantically swivelled left and right as he scrabbled backwards. Seeing double, Rain stared through the cloud of dust he had kicked up at the crowd bearing down on him. He registered the approaching shovel only as it slammed into the side of his head, stars flashing across his vision before everything went black.

~~~~~~~

From his seat under the tree, Dew was close to dozing off when something caught his attention. He watched in confusion as dark clouds appeared and raced across the sky, before combining together over one field. The air underneath them rippled with falling waves of the torriential rain falling from them. Dewdrop realised a few things simultaneously: firstly, those clouds weren't natural. Dew knew enough about elemental magic to recognise it when he saw it. Secondly, that amount of rain was dangerous and sure to catch the attention of the townsfolk, especially given the recent stretch of warm weather. Lastly, he realised in horror that the clouds were centred directly over the very field Rain had gone to that morning.

Dew leapt to his feet and took off running back to the farmhouse. This was it; all of their worst fears come to life. Their cover was well and truly blown and Dew had to get to the others.

#what you've done you cannot undo #cw angst #cw death #cw violence #mild but still there #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #foot of the gallows marriage #medieval au #historical au #enemies to lovers #ghost #ghost bc #dewdrop ghoul #rain ghoul #ghost fanfiction #raindrop month #em writes

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film-in-my-soul · 4 months

Text

Dirty Words | 10,207 | morningberries / @morningberriesao3

Summary: Steve gives Eddie a lesson on dirty talk, but things start to get carried away.

Cassiopeia, Orion, Bootes | 10,780 | AidaRonan / @aidaronan

Summary: When Steve finds the flyer for Bayou Bobby's midnight swamp tours, he's excited to finally get the opportunity to do something interesting on his work trip to New Orleans. Until he finds out he's human bait for something that lives in the swamp. Something with claws and scales and eyes that glow red in the moonlight.

if you wanna be my lover (you gotta be my friend) | 10,909 | hopewithfeathers

Summary: Eddie is so unused to being this fucking messed up over one specific person, and it’s driving him absolutely crazy. The fact that it’s Steve fucking Harrington doesn’t make it any better, and even though Eddie knows him now and he’s a good guy (the best guy, actually), it doesn’t help that Steve is probably, one hundred percent not interested.

Bad Timing | 11,071 | Anonymous

Summary: Steve's just trying to keep them all alive. He's stuck in the Upside Down, he's been attacked by flying demon bats and this is turning out to be a really terrible week. He's ignoring the aching in his body and the fever he seems to be developing because getting out of the hell dimension really seems like a more pressing matter. Except it's not just his injuries he's been ignoring. The stress has brought his heat on months early and being surrounded by Eddie Munson's scent is not making things better. Thanks to everything else going on, he doesn't notice until it's too late.

thirty days | 11,570 | Adure / @toburnup

Summary: "Okay, you should probably leave,” Eddie says quietly, hand slipping underneath the blanket. His other hand reaches for the remote and he pauses the movie. “Why?” “‘Cause I’m going to jerk off.” Steve's mouth is dry. His body is heavy. “I don’t want to go.” “Fine." Eddie leans his head back against the wall, reveals the column of his throat. "Stay.”

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Summary: Steve wasn’t really all that surprised to find himself here. He had never seen a gloryhole before. He’d chalked them up to a horny teenager’s pot at the end of the rainbow. Fantasy, and nothing else. A fat old man couldn’t squeeze down a chimney, and a guy couldn’t get his dick sucked in a public bathroom. But here it was, a small circular hole cut into the side of two adjacent stalls, as real and as terrifying as it could be. What surprised Steve about tonight was that he wasn't sticking his dick through the hole. Instead, he found himself sitting on his heels in front of it, hands wringing anxiously in his lap as he licked his lips and waited for someone to shuffle into the other stall.

In My Boxers, Half Stoned | 12,338 | Eddywow

Summary: "You can," Eddie said, almost sounding like he was nodding along to his words. The image was too pure for Steve. "You could say anything you want to me and I'd- I think I'd be into it. Because I saw your pics and like, I know your face isn't in them but- but I really like them. Is it okay that I liked them?"

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Summary: Steve is just staring at him, looking at Eddie over his shoulder. Eyes wide, mouth open in a perfect O. The ring of the smack Eddie just delivered on his perfect, beautiful ass still resonating in the empty kitchen.

Bone Mirror | 13,048 | Oonionchiver / @azrielgreen

Summary: Steve has never killed a human being before. It’s all he has. His life is oppressively quiet. Silent. Waiting for the day he’s brave enough to fill the pool again. Waiting for change. Waiting for the moon. It’s all he fucking has. Until Eddie Munson is accused of murder.

Swipe Right | 13,759 | aaliona / @bifuriouswaterbender

Summary: Eddie Munson knew how to take a profile picture, Steve decided right then. The angle was from straight on, but Eddie had his head tilted to the side, somehow managing to give big doe eyes at the viewer as his long hair fell around him. His sleeves were pushed up, showing off tattoos on both arms that he was subtly flexing. Steve had heard a lot about Eddie and didn’t even know which of it to believe. But hey, perhaps this was his chance to find out. At very least, Munson seemed like the kind of guy to know what he was doing. Taking a deep breath, Steve swiped right.

I’m on the Hunt (I’m After You) | 16,362 | OhlioOh

Summary: Odd is Eddie Munson’s thing, acquiring knowledge of the esoteric and strange a core tenet of his personality. Yet Hawkins National Park had been one big, beautiful blind spot. Plenty of people visit, plenty of people vanish, and yet not a soul is talking about it. Something is stalking these woods, and Eddie is going to be the one to find it. If only Park Ranger Steve Harrington wasn’t such a giant, unfairly attractive pain in his ass.

A Gem Beyond Counting | 13,728 | teddywesworl / @teddywesworl

Summary: The wrong feeling pitches and dives toward nausea again. Steve folds in half, eyes squeezed shut. The room spins, and his skin goes clammy. Behind the rush of white noise in his ears, he thinks he hears Eddie’s voice, calling to him, saying his name. There’s a soft pressure on his back that moves up to the back of his neck, and— Gone. Everything’s fine. He feels fine. He feels good, even. Eddie has a hand on the back of his neck and one clutching his forearm. Eddie looks frantic, eyes wide, a sheen of sweat on his face and stray damp curls stuck there. Steve’s gaze is drawn to his mouth, taut and worried and always in motion. He wants to lick into it.

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The Adventures of Eddie Munson, Cheerleader | 26,082 | bookworm1805

Summary: Hawkins Indiana, January 1985 The moment the basketball players walked into the gym, all hell broke loose. Curses were spat. Teenagers whispered in scandalized tones as their nikes squeaked over the polished wood floor. Prayers were chanted. Somewhere across town, a baby probably cried. Eddie Munson grinned.

the affliction of the feeling | 27,203 | nondz (pinkjook)

Summary: “Hold on,” Robin interrupts. “Hold on, is this— are you, like. Do you know what masochism is?” “I know I act like it sometimes, Robin, but I’m not actually fucking twelve,” Steve says.

for your eyes only (i'll show you my heart) | 32,068 | strawberryspence / @strawberryspence

Summary: “Damn you, Harrington.” Eddie shakes his head, looking back at the box again. He can see Robin looking at him, but Eddie avoids looking at her. He didn’t want to answer questions about his damn crush on Steve freaking Harrington and how he keeps getting more perfect by the minute. Eddie needs him to stop, like literally right now. “Oh my god,” Dustin screams, making Eddie look at him from across the room. Eddie finds him staring at someone, so he follows his line of sight and finds one Steve Harrington, yeah, that one, the one he just asked a second ago to stop being perfect? Yeah, that guy is standing at the bottom of the stairs with a crumpled box in his hands and is wearing glasses. Steve Harrington just exceeded perfect.

off the beaten path | 34,208 | pukner

Summary: "I'm saying this," says Steve, loudly, cutting him off, "because someone I love is, uh, gay. And I love them, but like, platonically. And also me calling you a queer might've been a little hypocritical, in restrospect." There is a long, baffled pause. "What," says Jonathan, "Steve, are you--are you coming out to me?" Steve frowns, "Oh, yeah, I guess I am. Cool."

The Shire is NOT on Fire | 54,148 | kissesforcas

Summary: The kids convince Steve to take them all to a Renaissance Faire and LARP event. Steve has more fun than he admits. And then Steve has a LOT more fun than he admits.

Ahoy, Big Boy | 83,733 | ChronicRabbit

Summary: Scoops Ahoy. America’s favorite place to cool down, and quite possibly the lamest summer job under the blazing Indiana sun. Especially if you were former High School royalty, brutally rejected by each and every university you’d applied to and promptly cut off by your shitty parents in an effort to teach: “some goddamned responsibility.” Between accidentally intercepted secret Russian communications, a meddling preteen matchmaker with no collarbones, and increased proximity with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, a measly $3 an hour plus tips is nowhere near enough to deal.

caught in the middle, helpless again | 131,425 | margosfairyeye (Skittery) / @margosfairyeye

Summary: Fuck, Eddie has been here before. The deja vu was bad enough but this is like, double, this is like deja deja vu or deja vu vu or something, this is unprecedented shit here. And Eddie knows what comes next, knows like the roiling ache in his stomach that they’re going to go in, go though the portal and into the Upside fucking Down and didn’t they already do this?

Master Reclist · Personal Masterlist · Blog Nav.

#steddie #steve/eddie #steddie reclist #reclist #fanfic reclist #stranger things reclist

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landwriter · 1 year

Note

1589 got me feeling&rambling and I'm so sorry beforehand that I can't keep it short and simple, as would probably befit the thing. Feel free to ignore if not interesting to you, still you are the one that comes to mind when thinking about Hob being morally grey.

That scene is always so painful to watch, mostly because Hob is behaving like such a sorry fool. He has really decked himself out to impress his stranger and misses the mark so dramatically.

(Whereas Dream seemingly has not held back either - I mean it's easily his hottest look, you can't tell me he didn't mean to make a lasting impression. So much disappointment on both sides.)

Cringe Hob as part of the dark Hob spectrum, his self-importance/selfishness showing - of course it's not pure fun to watch, but I'm always so fascinated by that flicker of pain (foreshadowing shame) that comes right to the surface in all his put on show, just before he orders the lamb. The contrast makes for a very intense moment, imo. And I am wondering, has he really left all of this behind by 1889? Or is he simply more smooth by that time (that's what I'm getting from the show) ? In fanfics his flaws are mostly depicted as minor or serving a good end in modern times, he is always such a goodie by then (and I love him, of course). But can we imagine just a trace of more questionable/offputting Hob in the mix (if only on impulse) - to be clear, I have no idea how that would work. Or should we just be grateful that that lies behind him (it certainly makes for a much more likeable character and a nicer love story)?

(me force feeding myself more of the horrible stuff I just wanted to avoid looking at)

It's a beautiful contrast: opulence and insecurity. Success and asking still for validation. I have Thoughts on each meeting (please send me asks about them) - ostensibly the very first fannish thing I did for this show, and also in my adult life, was rewatch the meetings and pause constantly and take - oh holy Christ over 4,000 words of notes.

I propose Hob is not acting like a sorry fool. Sure, some bits are clearly played for comedy. Hob is selfish, self-important, and given to hedonism. He is concerned primarily with his own comfort and the personal pleasures of life. But I blame 1589 pretty solidly on Dream. In 1489, after being asked what his experience is like, he answers Dream with an inarticulate statement spoken by a true person who just Digs The Experience of Experiencing: it's 'fucking brilliant' and 'all changing'. Dream asks how, Hob literally looks around the room like a student who forgot an essay was due, and names chimneys and playing cards. Handkerchiefs. Simple things - still sensual things - but simple ones. Certainly no sociopolitical discourse here. What will you people think of next, says Dream, deeply sarcastic and visibly disinterested. And Dream also asks him: but what is Hob doing with his time? This, too, he is under-prepared to answer. Soldiering, banditry, bit of printing press work. Hardly enough to impress this supernatural lord, and Hob can tell.

When he is granted, explicitly, another 100 years by Dream, it is not only a relief, but I think a part of Hob squares its jaw in that moment and says: I'll show him - I'll show him what I can do in a century, I'll earn his pleased regard. Not necessarily because he's even, you know, madly in love at this point, but because he's in it for the living, does not intrinsically have great ambitions, but does have someone who has a) seemingly granted him this greatest gift and b) is unimpressed with what he's doing with it. And he's lost everyone he knew. Dream is now his oldest acquaintance, and wouldn't it be nice if he liked Hob?

He knows only the language of what impresses other men, and this is what he achieves. But to Dream, both Hob's socially-valued successes and his deeply personal ones are terrifically uninteresting. They are not New Dreams To Spur The Minds Of Men. There is no new story in a man seeking fortune and having a wife and a child he loves. He is ancient as the first dreaming thing, and he is Bored. He is, in fact, soured on this meeting from the outset, when he says "Hello, Hob," which on my watch struck me, apparently, as extremely bizarre and of having a real air of Hob being In Trouble. (The only other times Dream says his name are at the first, looming and omniscient, and in 1789, - 'I suggest you find yourself a different line of business, Robert Gadling'. He does not say it at their modern meeting.)

I mean - how would you impress someone? Someone who was interested in your deeds? Putting on a nice little dinner and catching them up on your life, talking about your family, seems a decent enough shout. It's not like you can ask him about his life, he won't offer information when asked and only sometimes will correct you if you venture your own guesses. (see also: 1889 foreshadowing) Hob is feeling proud and triumphant, feeling like he's come far. He is obviously a bit obnoxious about it, but I do think Dream shows off his flaws far more in 1589 than Hob does.

Hob's greatest sin, here, is trying to be liked. His greatest regret is almost certainly not the spread he put on, but the moment he was really, truly, earnest - not underscored even by a subsequent joke - the moment he declaims that this is what he had imagined Heaven to be like (safe enough to walk the streets; good food; good wine) - Life is so rich, he says - and Dream looks away to listen to Will Shaxberd, and we watch real time as Hob's expression collapses. He had leaned forward nearly out of his chair in enthusiasm, and now he shrinks back, reminded again of the dangers of earnestness: being alone in it. Being ignored. Better to make a joke of things, which is why he tells so many around Dream, especially after being more open - it's clearly a matter of habit. (It is also, incidentally, absolutely unappealing to Dream, who really and truly looks at him for the first time in 1689, when he is stripped of the social niceties of men and reigns nothing in.) He eats. He frets. He has had another century, and he has failed to impress the stranger.

The worst moment, I think, is that Dream does not renew their compact. He does not ask Hob if he still wishes to live, and Hob does not get the opportunity to say "Oh, yes." He was given this gift for one reason: the stranger was curious about his experiences. Does the stranger seem still curious about him now? I wonder, honestly, if Hob thought he would see another meeting.

Has he really left that all behind by 1889? No - you hear it in his own words, 'People are almost always better than you think they are.' - the earnesty, and then the joke - 'Not me, though, still the same as ever.' Except it's not really a joke, is it? Hob is saying to Dream, I know you don't think much of me, well, I don't pretend to think much of myself. He still wants Dream's validation, of course, he's just trying to earn it differently. (It goes poorly.) He's smoother, but also more frustrated, more fed up, more hungry for knowledge of his stranger; and I think that's such an interesting point in time for him. I think he leaves little behind, and what he does leave behind, he dreams of. He's changed so much and so little, and I think you could really go in whatever direction you want depicting that and be convincing.

I can't speak to the fanon on Hob's flaws because I don't read nearly as much as I wish I could. While I don't personally think 1589 Hob was actually that questionable or offputting - at least no more than most people would be in that situation - I would love to see a modern fic where has the same flaws he's always had, where they come up maybe different than they would have several centuries ago, but they absolutely exist, it does have plot consequences. Bonus points if he is not being offputting for the purposes of rescuing Dream from the fishbowl - if his flaws exist independent of his relationship with Dream altogether. Bonus bonus points if Hob is the one whose character development needs to be developed and Dream is in a better place than he is. If anyone has fic recs feel free to drop them in the comments!

P.S. 1589 Dream, wow, yes, for sure. 10/10 would babble and get walked out on

#the sandman #dreamling #century meetings #meta #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the amount of them just not understanding what the other person wants or is offering at first is incredible #1489 #1589 #an essay #i really do think the dynamics in the first few meetings are SO INTERESTING and precarious

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renecdote · 1 year

Note

ren please my love will u write me "wiping their tears when they cry" for buddie mwah

Also for @abcdefuk-off who requested the same prompt. This got so much longer than planned lol but enjoy the Buck angst <3

[Read on AO3]

Those first few days after waking up, and after leaving the hospital, everything hurts. Buck gets used to a baseline of pain: headaches, muscle aches, healing burns on his hands, fractured ribs, bruised lungs, something vague and unrelenting that coils tight in his stomach. It all ebbs and flows, a tide teetering between low and high, easy enough to ignore sometimes, but never fully gone.

It gets better, as days blur into weeks. One and then two and then three, and after four he’s sitting in Dr Salazar’s office and she’s saying, “You can go back to work as early as next week.”

Buck doesn’t know how to explain the flash of panic that seizes him. The way he wishes she could just tell him that something is wrong, that there is some physical explanation for the way he feels. But all his other doctors say the same thing: there’s nothing wrong with him. His lungs have healed enough for him to go back to work. His hands aren’t even going to scar. There are no blood clots in his leg, no reason it should be hurting at all, except for how it will probably always hurt sometimes.

“But it’s worse,” Buck tries. “It hurts more, and more often, doesn’t that—shouldn’t it mean something is wrong?”

“You’ve been through a trauma,” is all the doctor will say, shrugging behind ultrasound and CT results that all say the same thing: he’s fine.

So why doesn’t Buck feel fine?

Why can’t he just feel fine?

****

He gets through the first shift fine. He’s exhausted at the end of it, a headache knocking behind his temples, but it’s fine. He’s fine. He lets Eddie talk him into going home with him, manages to smile through breakfast with Christopher before crashing hard on the couch, and when he wakes up a few hours later, he’s fine.

The second shift, he doesn’t go home with Eddie. Doesn’t leave the station with a headache, either, which is nice, but he’s left with something restless and itching beneath his skin that makes him want to run until he has forgotten how to breathe.

He goes home instead. Deep cleans his apartment. Heats up frozen lasagne for lunch and eats sitting on the balcony, squinting at the grey edge of the sky and wondering if it’s going to rain.

Come over for dinner? 🥺 Chimney texts around four p.m., and Buck spends several minutes frowning at the message before he sends back a question mark. Chimney sends back a block of the same emoji in response and refuses to elaborate.

Fine, Buck replies. But just for the record I’m sick of eating pot roast.

He’s half expecting it anyway; Maddie isn’t a bad cook, but her repertoire is a bit limited, and Chimney’s even more so. When he arrives at six-thirty on the dot, he’s pleasantly surprised, and then a little suspicious, to find them setting out containers of Thai from one of Buck’s favourite takeout places.

“This isn’t another intervention, is it?” he asks, and he tries to make it sound like a joke, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed.

“Should it be?” Maddie asks, eyebrows raised.

“No,” Buck answers, matching her raised eyebrows with his own narrowed eyes. “I thought we agreed you couldn’t fix me.”

Chimney fumbles a grease-stained paper bag and two spring rolls make a bid for freedom, rolling across the counter. He snatches them quickly, muttering hot hot hot under his breath as he drops them onto a plate. He doesn’t say, “ah, so there is something that needs fixing,” but he may as well have. Buck steals a spring roll and bites down on it hard, chewing and swallowing even as his eyes water at the burn of too-hot pastry and filling.

Maddie rolls her eyes. “Sometimes dinner is just dinner, Evan. Why don’t you help Chimney set the table? I’m going to get Jee washed up to eat.”

Just dinner would be sitting in his apartment alone with whatever leftovers he dug out of the freezer, but Buck doesn’t argue. He takes the handful of cutlery Chimney offers him and sets it out on the table, Maddie and Chimney side-by-side, Buck opposite them both, plastic cutlery arranged carefully on Jee’s high chair at the head of the table. It’s hard to feel anything but warm inside when handling toddler cutlery, which was probably Maddie’s goal all along.

It spreads through him while they eat: warmth soaking into aching muscles, loosening the tension in his spine, helping him breathe a little bit easier. They don’t ask him if he’s okay and at some point he stops expecting them to. It’s like the moment after a jump scare in a movie, when all the tension that has been building snaps, the door pushed open to reveal a cat or a squawking bird where you expected to find a killer, adrenaline draining away to leave you loose and giggly. Buck stretches out his legs under the table and he can almost trick himself into believing that the twinge of pain is just in his head.

After dinner is over—plates and cutlery packed into the dishwasher, leftover Thai in the fridge—he helps Maddie give Jee a bath and put her to bed. It’s good. Normal. From the moment the tap turns on until Jee’s bedroom light is turned off, he feels like he can breathe. Like he might be okay.

Which. That was probably Maddie’s goal all along.

“You can stay,” Chimney offers when they’re back out in the kitchen. “The guest room has a proper bed and everything now.”

Buck smiles, appreciating the offer. “Nah, I should get home. Thanks though. For dinner and…”

A gesture, vague and all-encompassing. Chimney shrugs it away.

“Anytime,” he says, and Buck knows he means it. He could show up here at three in the morning and he wouldn’t be turned away. “See you at work tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “See you at work.”

Maddie follows him to the door and hugs him tightly before he steps outside.

“Drive safe,” she says against his shoulder, words cast like a spell. “Text me when you get home.”

It’s the kind of thing she has said to Buck all his life. He used to roll his eyes good naturedly, grumble through a yeah, okay , and he’d still speed through yellow lights but he’d always feel a little more guilty about it with Maddie’s words in the back of his mind.

Tonight he just squeezes her again and promises, “I will.”

He slows down for every yellow light on the way home.

****

It’s not so bad at first: a dull ache, deep enough in his leg that he can almost ignore it. He’s getting pretty good at that, with the way it feels like the pain is always there these days, lurking, waiting to pounce. Buck avoids looking at it head-on for as long as he can, like it’s a monster in the dark that he can keep away by pulling a blanket over his head.

So it doesn’t sneak up on him, really, but it still takes his breath away when the pain corkscrews through his leg, suddenly sharp and biting. Buck stumbles, catching himself on the engine, choking back a curse that becomes a strangled wheeze. His first thought— fuck, ow ow ow —is followed quickly by a second: thank god everyone else is already in the engine .

“Buck?” Bobby calls, head sticking out through the front window. “You coming?”

Buck gives him a thumbs up, words trapped behind tightly clenched teeth. Climbing into the engine is hell, his leg pulsing with every step up, and he curls his hands into fists to hide the way they’re shaking after this seatbelt has been clipped into place. It was a long call, the kind that leaves everyone tired and not in the mood to talk, and Buck is absurdly grateful for it because it means nobody is paying too much attention to him. Nobody sees the wince he can’t hide when the truck jolts over a pothole, or the way he has to brace himself before jumping out when they’re back at the station.

There’s a bottle of Tylenol that lives in his work bag and he goes straight for it after he gets his turnout gear off. Everyone else has already drifted towards the bunks, but Buck tries not to limp as he walks up the stairs anyway. It feels too much like giving in. Like letting his leg and that bomber kid and the whole fucking universe win.

He tries to pace, tries to shake the cramp out by moving, but every step is like a knife through his ankle, his knee, shooting up through his hip to grip his chest in a vice as well. Buck makes it three limping circuits around the loft before he gives up and collapses on the couch. He folds over, head against his right knee, left leg stretched out while he digs his fingers into the long-healed muscles and wishes the pain would go away.

A stress headache is setting in now too, the kind that feels like his head is in a vice, the pain squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. Buck takes a shaky breath, then another, then another, trying to figure out whether he feels sick, or if it’s just the same coiling tension in his stomach that he’s been dealing with for weeks.

“Hey.”

He flinches, startled, and Eddie moves closer with a frown.

“Buck? You okay?” he asks, sounding like he’s already halfway convinced that he answer is no . Which it is, but.

Buck swallows. “Yeah, just—my leg. ‘M okay.”

Eddie hums, an I’ll be the judge of that kind of sound, and he perches on the edge of the coffee table, so close that their legs have no choice but to touch. “Can I…?”

There’s a half-hysterical thought in the back of Buck’s head that his leg will fall apart if he lets it go. The pain will tear through flesh and bones and leave nothing but broken, jagged pieces behind. Blood and sinew and useless muscle hanging off splintered pieces of bone. The thought of it makes him sick and he has to swallow hard against the nausea before he can make his fingers loosen their hold. It gets him a smile, quick and gentle, like Eddie knows the mental battle it took.

“Okay,” he says, easy and soft. “Do you want to lie down?”

Buck shakes his head. Even if he’s lying on his back, even if it’s the couch in the station instead of the rough asphalt of the street, his edges are too frayed right now for it to feel like anything other than being back there under the truck. He stretches his leg out in front of him instead, hands curled into tight fists while Eddie does his exam, quick but thorough.

“I don’t see anything concerning,” he judges, and Buck shouldn’t mourn the touch of his hands but he does. “No redness or swelling… is it just the pain?”

“Yeah,” Buck manages, too shaky. He doesn’t need to explain because Eddie knows more than most what it’s like when an injury heals but doesn’t ever fully let you go.

“Alright.” Hand on his knee for a second, two seconds, warmth lingering even after it’s gone. “Heat or ice?”

Buck shakes his head because—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know if anything will help.

“Okay,” Eddie takes his non-answer in stride, “we’ll try heat first, then switch if it isn’t working.”

It doesn’t take long to grab a couple of heating pads from the first aid cupboard, nor to pull the coffee table a bit closer so Buck can put his feet up on it without having to stretch. Hen would smack him if she saw him doing it, but he’s pretty sure Eddie would defend him. His only other option is stretching out on the couch and—no. Not tonight.

“Here, drink this,” holding out a glass until Buck takes it. “It’ll help.”

It’s only half full, which is good because Buck’s hands shake when he holds it. He still feels vaguely sick, but he chokes down a few sips anyway, clinging to the way Eddie smiles at him when he does.

“Better?” he checks, adjusting one of the heating pads that had started to slip off Buck’s knee.

Buck wants to say yes. He wants to say yeah, all good now, thanks for your help but you don’t need to stay . He wants to rewind time and never get in the front seat of the truck. He wants to rewind time and wait just a few minutes before climbing up that ladder so the lightning doesn’t hit him. He wants and wants and wants. He’s spent his whole life wanting—his parents to love him, somewhere to belong, to be useful and good and happy —and even now that he has so much, he still fucking wants.

Buck bites his lip through the sting of frustrated tears, determined not to cry.

“It’s been, um, worse. Lately. Since the lightning strike.”

Eddie frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Buck shrugs, as if he doesn’t know the answer. As if the words aren’t right there on the tip of his tongue: I didn’t want anyone to worry .

“No,” Eddie says, gentle and a little bit—sad, almost, but trying not to be. It’s like he can read the words spinning through Buck’s mind. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

Because Eddie isn’t anyone . He hasn’t been for a long time. Buck rubs a hand over his face, then picks at a loose thread on his knee, avoiding Eddie’s eyes.

“Are you going to tell Bobby?” he asks.

“You don’t want me to,” Eddie says, not a question. Buck shakes his head anyway. “Because you don’t want him to worry? Or because you don’t want to be benched for the rest of shift?”

The simple answer is both . That’s the answer Buck is supposed to give. It’s what Eddie is expecting to hear. But the truth is that Buck died, and nobody will let him forget it, and he still doesn’t know how he really feels about it.

That coil in his stomach tightens, dread clogging his veins. A traitorous, frustrated tear slips out and Buck squeezes his eyes shut. He makes a belated movement to wipe it away, but Eddie’s hand is already there, the curl of his fingers warm under Buck’s chin and his thumb warmer still as it swipes gently across his cheek. It’s that, Buck thinks, more than the pain and the frustration, that makes the next two tears slip out.

“I won’t tell Bobby,” Eddie promises him, the absence of his touch burning like frostbite when he pulls his hands away. “But I’m going on record saying that I think you should.”

“I can still do my job,” Buck mutters, sinking into his corner of the couch. It’s the easiest excuse to hide behind. It’s even mostly true: he can do his job, even if adrenaline and determination are the only things that get him through.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Buck wilts. He does know. And he doesn’t want to argue with Eddie. It’s always so much easier to be angry, to burn hot and fast and deal with the fallout later, but whenever he reaches for the flames these days, whenever he thinks it’s not fucking fair , all he feels is tired. Bone deep, achingly tired.

You’ve been through a trauma , people keep telling him, but Buck has been through traumas before and they’ve never left him feeling quite like this.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll tell Bobby if it becomes a problem.”

If it comes down to other people’s lives, he would have done it anyway. He’s not stupid; he’s not going to risk anyone else.

Eddie nods, satisfied. He takes the glass of water from Buck’s hands and sets it on the coffee table, out of the way, then settles into the couch at his side. There’s enough space that they don’t need to be touching, but they end up pressed together from thigh to shoulder anyway.

“Do you think you can sleep?” Eddie asks.

Buck shrugs, but he’s pretty sure the answer is no. He’s pretty sure that Eddie knows it too.

“Alright,” he says, reaching for the remote. “But it’s my turn to pick what we watch.”

It’s not, but Buck doesn’t fight him on it. He doesn’t care what they watch, doesn’t think he could focus on it right now anyway. He closes his eyes, letting the sound of some late-night soap rerun fade into background noise, and waits for the pain to fade with it.

****

Buck doesn’t sleep, but he drifts, sinking down to something close enough to sleep that it can almost be called rest. His leg doesn’t hurt as much anymore, the weight of the heating pads over his knee and ankle as much of a relief as the heat itself. He’s not sure what time it is when footsteps on the stairs make him tense, threatening to undo all the hard work that Eddie and the heating pad have done to relax his muscles. The only thing that keeps him still is the hand Eddie puts on his thigh, warm and grounding. He squeezes gently— relax, you’re okay, I’ve got you —then stands up, meeting Bobby in the kitchen with an easy, “Hey, Cap, you want some coffee?”

Buck relaxes, listening to the familiar sound of people moving around the station kitchen: mugs clinking, the coffee machine gurgling, the slightest squeak of boots on the floor as Bobby and Eddie move around each other. It’s so familiar and soothing that he’s almost back in that state of not-quite-resting, drifting through the currents at the edge of the room, when he hears Bobby ask, “He okay?”

It’s right there in his voice: worry worry worry . Buck bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tastes blood, sudden and metallic. It stops his heart in his chest for a beat, two beats, and he has to breathe carefully through the swell of memory and nausea until the taste of blood and bile have both been swallowed down.

“Yeah,” Eddie is answering behind him, and that helps too, “just a leg cramp, he’s okay.”

Buck doesn’t get to find out what Bobby’s response to that is—the alarm rings and he’s on his feet before it’s a conscious thought. Before he stops, one hand on the bannister going down the stairs, and wonders whether he should actually stay behind. Whether Bobby will make him stay behind.

He hesitates too long. Long enough that everyone else is already climbing into the truck and Bobby is looking back at him from the app bay, eyebrows raised.

“You coming, kid?”

Buck shakes himself and follows. He can still do his job.

****

The fire burns hot and fast, two townhouses already alight when they join the 122 on scene, a third just starting to go up as well.

“Shit,” Chimney mutters, and Buck feels it in his bones: people are going to die tonight. People are probably already dead, just waiting for someone to pull their bodies out.

“Buck—” Eddie starts, low and close, fingers twisted in his sleeve, and Buck doesn’t know what he’s going to say but—

“Not now,” he says, shaking Eddie off.

Eddie lets him go.

Buck tells himself that he’s grateful for it, even as his leg throbs in protest. He’s fine, he reminds himself. He’s fine, he can still do his job.

And he does. He lets the smoke and the flames numb him, sinking into the routine: check room after room after room, pull out body after body after body. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think.

He’s limping by the time they clear the buildings. The pain isn’t as bad as it was before, but it’s deep and persistent, the kind of always there pain he got used to feeling in the weeks after the ladder truck crushed him. Buck sees a life stretching out before him where it never goes away: he’ll wake up hurting every morning, go to sleep hurting every night, probably have to quit his job because he’s always, always hurting.

He feels sick. Thinks he might actually be sick, stuck on a roller coaster he doesn’t know how to get off, and he leans shakily against the engine, pressing his forehead against the cool metal while he tries to breathe the feeling away.

Bobby finds him there.

Of course Bobby finds him there.

“Here,” he says, and his hand is a steady pressure between Buck’s shoulder blades until he turns his head, blinking past the red of the engine to find a water bottle being held out. Bobby shakes it a little when Buck doesn’t immediately reach to take it. “Come on, Buck, you know the drill.”

Buck wonders which drill that is. The stay hydrated when fighting fires one, or the don’t disobey orders one, or maybe the let people take care of you one. It doesn’t really matter, he supposes, the answer is all the same. He grabs the water bottle from Bobby’s hand. Fumbles it open and takes a few sips.

“Sit,” Bobby suggests, hand still on Buck’s back, gently guiding him the few limping steps until he can sit on the front of the engine. The scene is still bustling around them, firefighters moving like moths around the flames, but Bobby seems content just to stand beside Buck, watching silently.

Buck lasts five minutes before he breaks.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asks, exhausted down his marrow.

“About your leg?” Bobby doesn’t pretend not to know what he’s talking about and Buck is grateful for it. “I figured you’d come to me if something needed saying.”

Buck swallows.

Swallows again.

He’s pretty sure they’ve reached the point where something needs saying, but he has no idea where to start. I’m sorry , maybe. I swear the doctor cleared me , probably. The words all feel frothy on his tongue, taking up more room than they should, and he opens his mouth without really knowing which ones he’s going to say and—

“I’m scared.”

It’s a whisper. A confession meant for the dark safety of night, spilled out here in the burning daylight of a new day like oil on the road. The sun glints off it like a beacon: here! look, beware, there is danger here! Buck wants to scoop the words back up, shove them deep inside his chest, lock them up where he’s the only one who might choke on them. He wants to find a smile, or a joke, anything that he can tape over the moment to wipe the look of quiet concern off Bobby’s face. He wants to pretend that he’s fine because maybe if he pretends hard enough it will become true.

“I don’t even know why I’m scared,” he finds himself confessing anyway. “I don’t know why my leg hurts, or how to make it stop, or—”

or if I’ll ever feel normal again

There’s a flash of memory—Eddie crying at the dining table, Eddie’s room destroyed, Eddie’s door locked, Eddie dying in the street—so sudden and visceral that Buck flinches away from it. His breath stutters, and his leg throbs sharply, and it’s all so much that he almost flinches when Bobby puts a hand on his shoulder as well.

“I’m not going to pretend that I have all the answers,” Bobby says, as warm and steady as his hand. His lips twist into something wry for a second as he adds, “Or any of them.” Buck doesn’t smile, even though he thinks he’s supposed to. “But I’m always here if you want to talk, or even if you don’t.”

Bobby breakfasts . It’s not a secret at the firehouse, but it’s always talked about in low tones, the same way you’d whisper about something sacred. They’ve all had one at some point: a quiet invitation at the end of a hard shift, “we don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” then the comforting bustle of a café with good coffee and eggs cooked any way you want them. Buck remembers sitting in that café three days after Eddie got shot, the taste of blood still in his mouth and his stomach too messed up to even think about eating, sipping camomile tea while Bobby ate a bagel and did the crossword in an honest to god newspaper beside him.

He remembers wondering where the newspaper even came from. Remembers the flash of fear at the realisation that he’d lost time somewhere between the firehouse and the café. Remembers his hands shaking around his teacup, china rattling as he set it back in the saucer, and Bobby’s knees bumping against his even though the table was big enough that they shouldn’t have.

He remembers that it helped, even if he didn’t really know it at the time.

“Captain Nash!” someone calls, and it’s like a bucket of ice water over Buck’s head.

Bobby glances behind him, towards the IC who called his name, then back at Buck, his reluctance clear on his face.

“Go,” Buck tells him, hugging himself. “I’m okay.”

Bobby still hesitates, long enough that the IC calls his name again, and Buck tries for a smile that is probably more like a grimace by the time it reaches his lips. It gets Bobby moving though. Gets him to nod, once, and squeeze Buck’s shoulder again before he turns with a parting, “I’ll send Eddie over.”

Buck opens his mouth, halfway to a protest, but Bobby is already striding away. He should be annoyed, he thinks; he doesn’t need a babysitter. But instead he’s just kind of grateful as he sinks back against the engine, knowing he won’t be alone for long.

****

The shift is over by the time they get back to the station, but Buck still finds Bobby in his office. The door is open, but he knocks anyway, leaning heavily against the doorframe because he thinks his leg might collapse under him if he has to take one more step.

“I can’t,” he says, when Bobby looks up at him. “Talk about it. Not yet.”

Not with Bobby, at least. Not until he can find a way to say I’m not okay without also saying you died, you know? in my coma dream, you died because I wasn’t there to help save you, and I don’t know what to do with that because sometimes I feel like I can save everyone except myself .

“Okay,” Bobby says easily. “Would you like to have breakfast anyway? We don’t have to talk.”

Buck smiles, tired but real. “I appreciate the offer, Cap, but—maybe a rain check?”

Bobby’s face is a silent ah . “You’re going home with Eddie.”

It’s not a question. Buck nods anyway. If he turned his head just slightly, he’d be able to see Eddie hovering by the engine, both their bags slung over his shoulder, waiting for Buck to be ready to go. Waiting to jump in if he’s needed too, knowing Eddie.

“Good,” Bobby smiles, and Buck knows it means he’ll take care of you . “If you need anything, let me know.”

“I will.”

Bobby nods, satisfied, then looks back down at his paperwork. “I’ll see you next shift, Buck.”

Buck bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t do something embarrassing like burst into tears. He has to breathe through the sudden lump in his throat a couple of times before he can say, “Thanks, Cap. See you next shift.”

He turns carefully, weight balanced on his good leg, and limps out towards the parking lot. It only takes a few seconds for Eddie to fall into step beside him, their shoulders bumping gently.

“Okay?” he checks, brown eyes warm and serious on Buck’s face.

Buck smiles; still tired, still pained, but still real.

“Yeah,” he answers. “All good.”

And it’s not really. Not fully. But—

“It will be,” Eddie agrees, smiling back.

It will be .

Yeah.

Yeah, Buck thinks, he’s gonna be okay. His family will make sure of it.

#Evan Buckley #Eddie Diaz #Maddie Buckley #Chimney Han #Bobby Nash #911 Fox #fic #post lightning buck is something that can be so personal

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ay0nha · 5 months

Text

DEATH IS A MIRROR | N.K. (I)

GIF by voidshinya

SUMMARY: You’d told him once that you feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.

PAIRING: Nanami Kento x f!reader (anti-hero of sorts)

WORD COUNT: 3.2K

WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, ANGST, jjk canon-typical things, mentions of BLOOD and INJURY, mentions of dying, Nanami being a lil snippy, ANGST, depressing themes, bottom half is a dream/memrory, etc.

A/N: So, I actually hated what I wrote, so I rewrote it and added a lot more. Thank you in advance for your patience with me. I hope you enjoy again :)

TAGS: @khaleesihavilliard, @vee-ai, @killlerqween, @nokkoongie, @anti-heroism, @chimamire-ga @darkstudentsaladbakery @benzywenzymeowmeow @nanamin94

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED. PLEASE.

Prologue

When you were young, you threw things out of your bedroom window to learn how they would break. Many of them did not—the plastic dolls and plush toys landed safely on the grassy yard below—but the wooden toys did break, or at least they came apart.

One day, you found a snow globe. A winter village stood inside, with snow-covered roofs and chimneys shooting up into the domed sky.

This snow globe was the last thing you threw out of your window, not because your mother scolded you, which she did, but because this snow globe smashed so gloriously—an explosion of crystal, water, snow, and glitter, the village utterly destroyed —you thought you wouldn’t be able to replicate such destruction again.

It was bullshit then, and it was bullshit now. Moving on and letting go was never in the stars for you. Or the tea leaves. Or in the deep lines of your palm. You knew you were destined for destruction.

“You need to focus.” Nanami’s tone was sterile. It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise.

Your clothes clung to your frame, damping by the minute from the storm. Your eyes were closed as you tilted your head toward the stars as if they spoke to you directly. It was a language you could decipher, but Nanami could only interpret as foolishness.

“There may be special grades in there,” He continued, repeating everything Gojo had relayed. “We need to stick to the plan—

“It won’t work.” You looked back to him, safely tucked under his umbrella. Every stitch of his suit was dry, contrasting the way your eyelashes clumped together as if crying. “The plan is far too idealistic—impractical.”

You vetted his blank gaze for proper determination of his upset.

The cracks behind his exterior were so deeply concealed you hadn’t thought anything could slip between. Yet, standing before him, you alone were the ice-pick that’s pressure had shattered him.

“You’re walking into a trap, and yet, my plan is impractical?” Nanami ached with dissatisfaction.

The rain aided the facade of the building. It’s already dilapidated paint peeled under the weight of the water. The faint yellow hue of the streetlights highlighted its empty depth—you wouldn’t be surprised if its echo would swallow you whole. Even with the disarray of water droplets, cursed energy flowed steadily.

“Wait here.” You instructed, voice barely audible over the rain. You ignored Nanami easily, a plan he wasn’t privy to already set in motion. “It’ll only take a second.”

“We shouldn’t split up.” Nanami disagreed, body instinctively moving to block you. It was inevitable for you to stray from the path, you just did it sooner than he’d like.

You shook your head, half-heartedly listening to Nanami’s so-called advice. “You’re not the only one who can play the hero.”

“Don’t pretend that suits you.” He mocked your tone, trust nowhere to be found. “We have a job to do.”

It took convincing to draw you in, but the promised mystery surrounding the cursed object confirmed your involvement. The object was still unknown, just a rumor floating around begging to be found. There were already higher ups sent after it, Gojo included. With you in the pool, the game changed in his favor.

“Curses are quite sentimental when it comes to their things.” You let out a teasing hum, dirty shoes landing on the antique table. “What makes you think I want to help you?”

Although his eyes were covered, you knew Gojo’s gaze landed beyond you. Nanami was entirely ignorant of the implication. “Call it a hunch.”

Long ago, Nanami learned to not trust instinct as it almost never led to an obvious solution. Instead, emotion muddled decisions and tarnished everything it touched. But he craved to follow his gut, to loosen his tie just so he could breathe a bit deeper.

It was impossible with a plan so intentionally deceptive. Gojo was cryptic, leaning into riddles and half-truths. He relied on you and Nanami to read between the lines for the true instruction. The methods didn’t seem to matter anymore, as you were the first to come up with a means to an end.

“A job?” You scoffed. Everything correlated to work. “I’m here as a favor.” You drew in a breath, hoping to gain confidence with it to finally enter the abandoned home. “Keep your eyes on the door.”

Nanami would give you five minutes before stepping in. 300 seconds. The rain's pattern no longer mattered when he felt the pulse of the seconds travel from his watch through his veins. Every second counted attached to his discomfort.

He watched you run across the street, not bothering to check for traffic. Danger was never a fear-inducing concept for you, but rather a temptation. It was why he was waiting for your betrayal. It was the way you responded when things got hard and it was only a matter of time he’d be on the receiving end.

Four minutes left…

The rain grew heavier, challenging the effectiveness of the cheap umbrella Nanami held. He started to feel the water that had made it past his defenses seep through his jacket and make its way to his skin. It was an odd grounding for him, reminding him to stay still present.

Get in, get out.

Nanami crossed the street, being lured in by how the house groaned with an invitation. The lightening helped illuminate it’s silhouette and lead him to the door.The dust had settled on every windowsill and unbroken counter. The rats and pigeons had returned to their makeshift shelter, and the rain hadn’t stopped corrupting the wood Nanami stood on.

It was easy to follow your trail of wet footprints. Yet, it was the way you subdued your cursed energy, as if storing it—hiding it—made Nanami’s faith in Gojo ripple. The obligation made to Gojo, furthered Nanami’s stride.

He paused, hearing you speak with familiarity. Once he found a gap between the wooden beams, he saw your companion.

Three minutes…

“The girl without the heart seeks me out?” The cursed user responded—gurgled. You weren’t sure if the bile it excreted was its own or from what it had just devoured. “I’m flattered…”

“There’s something I’m trying to find.” Your voice was steady, knowing what stood opposite you sought for cracks.

No longer did it reflect something human-like, its body corrupt from using sorcery in the darkest corners. Every curse eaten, darkened its skin and removed whatever humanity remained.

“Ever the collector…” It tutted.

Collector, Nanami scoffed at the thought. You appeased what was across from you with teasing conversation. Dark inside jokes were exchanged that made Nanami’s heart drop to his stomach. The shared memories were vile and reckless, causes of messed he’d been sent to clean up.

Two minutes…

Between the gap, he watched how the cursed user reached for your skin. You hadn’t flinched, far too trusting in its presence. “And if I know where to start?”

“Name your price.” You were stoic. The nails of the cursed user scratched at your already bruising skin.

The position you were in was out of politeness, you wanted the object. Otherwise, the cursed user would have painted the walls already. It knew this, taking advantage of its luck misinterpreting that as power.

“You know what I want…” It purred. It’s hand trailed to stop at your neck, settling on the chain it found. It pulled at it until the pendent’s weight was no longer felt on your chest.

You didn’t pull back, but you were firm. “Not for sale.”

It hummed with discontent. The whine scraped against the walls, crying out like a child whose candy was taken. Nanami watched it’s overgrown nails dig into your jawline. Slowly, he reached back for his blunt blade. The grip on the handle soothed Nanami’s anxiety just barely as the seconds hand of his watch didn’t move fast enough.

One minute…

“There’s very little I want from you…” It tutted again, finding pleasure in the slight reprimands. “...especially when you come only to insult me.”

It’s smile was wicked, as if it had found your weak point. You felt it too; Nanami’s weight shifted ever so slightly, radiating concern revealing his concealed location. The cursed energy, even, from behind the rotted wall, doubled with preparation of expulsion.

You had to race the clock before Nanami destroyed everything.

“Kento.” You called out, eyes unwavering from the cursed user. Anger consumed your breath. “Go wait outside.”

“Kento…” The cursed user repeated his name like a lover would. The laugh released echoed poorly, becoming sharp and unsettling. “He’s yours, isn’t he?”

Nanami reached behind his back for a familiar leather handle. His grip settled comfortably on it in warning. All you saw was a threat. It spoke of your ability to read him and how exhausting it had been to interpret. You wanted a reason to let your vexation control your movements.

Your time was up.

He stalked toward you, tie loosening to wrap tightly around his forming fist. “You may have Gojo’s trust but—

Before he had the chance to finish, you darted.

Your movements looked evasive as if every twitch was purposeful for defense. Its fluidity was the distraction from its purpose; you came close to him just to deliver blows just shy of lethal.

“It wasn’t meant to happen like this, Kento.” You mused—teased. There was no struggle in your breath despite the speed you conjured. “I thought you loved orders. Why didn’t you just stay put?”

Guilt never found you as necessity ruled your movements. The cursed user’s eyes were on you steadily. Every choice and word exposed whose side you were on. For the time being, you and it were one and the same. The jujutsu sorcerer was simply a common enemy.

“Trust me, I was looking out for you.” You taunted again.

Although your voice was soft, it carried well. It crawled coldly up Nanami’s spine just to rattle him. However, your words caused him to hesitate; his glasses were discarded, most likely broken, and you watched his brow furrow with confusion.

“Trust you?” Nanami sucked in the air greedily, your blows playfully devious.

For the information you sought, you had to prove yourself and your alliances. Nanami was never a good liar and it was never an option to have him be aware of his position as a pawn. The less he knew, the better.

“Hey, Kento—” You called to him as he pushed off his knee to stand again. Waving a cloth-covered knife before you, Nanami hid his shock. He didn’t even feel you swipe his weapon. “Find me when you wake up.”

Nanami knew nothing in this world came easy. He knew love took practice and vowed never to put in the hours. He knew metamorphosis took danger and, most likely, pain.

However, with his vision disappearing, he welcomed the darkness that consumed him. He knew nothing any longer except that his subconscious seemed to reach for you.

—

2013…

Clear as a memory, the dream’s outline, dark and sticky, crept closer.

Nanami closed his eyes, a nasty habit he’d been taunted with.

Every step had been memorized that there was no need to question his stride. There were just shy of 40 steps from his desk to the elevator. From one of the top floors to the lobby of the building took only a few minutes. Then, roughly 5000 steps to the always-burnt-coffee diner a handful of blocks away.

The ritualistic nature of the journey happened every day. Although Nanami clocked out, his body hesitated to return home. He wasn’t sure where to fit this unorthodox routine. It was neither work nor pleasure, just perverse impulsivity. Every step was intentional, with the ability to retrace. Over and over, the routine was just shy of obsessive.

Nanami opened his eyes at the neon sign that flickered with age. Pushing through the door, the chime welcomed his presence, allowing the breath he held to be replaced with greasy air and soft chatter.

The leather booth creased against his suit as he sat in the darkest corner. Nanami counted the steps it took for the waitress to reach him—13 unlucky steps—to take his order. He noted the curses weighing at her ankles while she repeated his simple order: a cup of black coffee and the day’s pie.

His ears buzzed with indifference, manners on autopilot as the waitress offered pleasantries. Nanami missed her body growing rigid, eyes glazing over as if her sight wasn’t hers. Her stiffened hands dropped the pen, and on reflex, Nanami reached for it.

“Ever the gentleman, Nanami.” You hummed on his return. He hadn’t bothered to gasp your name or act surprised to see you opposite him so suddenly. If anything, your technique seemed to be a nuisance. “What? No long time, no see?”

Nanami’s disjointed relationship with sorcery met its match with you. “What do you want?”

The diner was warm with a knowing tension. It removed the chill from your skin and cradled you into a comfortable position. Your eyes flickered to outside. Decorations were starting to litter the telephone poles and people wrapped their thin sweaters around them tightly.

Nanami knew you hated the holidays as the hollow loneliness mocked you. When you were both still in school, he made it manageable and a little less loathsome. Yet, your adult lives festered creating a distance that was too dead to fully die.

“Did they find you?” Nanami pulled your eyes back to him. Your scowl confirmed his suspicion. “You know better—

“That’s not why I’m here.” You hissed. You weren’t trying to intimidate him, but you couldn’t help but pout at his lack of enthusiasm. You caved first. “...I saw something.”

Your left eye twitched, warning you your premonition was soon to be true. It was on the simpler side, a vision of dark shadows intentionally elusive.

When you were younger, you thought you were crazy, seeing apparitions or former lives. However, as years passed, familiar faces began to fill your vision, showing truths you became excited to fulfill. But they became warped with opposing desires and reverberating fear wreathed with vindication.

It made things sour and sore. It allowed trouble to seek you out just to be ill-prepared for your counter. It wasn’t bravery that energized you, nor was it skill. Pure spite drove you to be the worst of all.

“You think I’m evil.” You sighed, leaning into the booths corner. “You’re afraid of me because you don’t know—

“Coffee and apple pie for you—” The waitress balanced the diner's entire responsibility on and fluidly placed Nanami’s portion down. “—sorry, I haven’t taken your—

She hardened, body seemingly frozen under your gaze. You learned to move with vigilance to veil the constant fragility you felt. The defense mechanism became instinct and so you inflicted it on everyone.

“Don’t do that.” Nanami scolded you, releasing the waitress from your hypnotic ability. “I’d assume you would have learned to control that by now.”

“We all have our vices…” You mumbled, the heat of embarrassment swirling in your chest. It took focus to remain guarded, but your distraction quickly became destruction. “You’ve been counting again…”

You nodded to the way his fingers tapped in a pattern. The slight dig was telling of how well you could still read him. It was a comfort for Nanami, something mindless and reliable. However, you knew his tells and how the habit hurt when stress became all-consuming.

You looked warm, contrasting the winter beginning outside. A bubble was created that was becoming suffocating, but with you across from Nanami, it seemed just marginally bearable. Your hand flexed, skimming his, hoping to regain his attention.

“While I appreciate your concern, I am perfectly fine.” Nanami thought to sink back, but he chased the small contact. His voice was commanding, betraying his desperation. “Now, tell me what you saw.”

You had no dreams. At least ones you could remember. It was like your body was protecting you from seeing things that you shouldn't see. As if it were always on the tip of you tongue, a small semblance to let you know there was something there, just deeply hidden.

However, what you witnessed was the first clear thing you had seen in years and maybe even ever. It started off forgettable, a fantasy-like world that could be misconstrued for a fairy tale. But the fog in your mind started to swirl. The colors became deeper, more like shadows that soon transformed into familiar figures.

You recognized your own body from the anguish in your shoulders. Hunched over Nanami’s body as you held him tightly, that lump formed in your throat again. It was a quick image, one that would flash at inappropriate times.

It haunted you for weeks. It scratched at your subconscious and controlled your movements. There was no promise to when your premonition would come to fruition, but something felt off—different.

To soothe yourself, you kept your distance, following Nanami’s schedule. It was meant to be enough. Yet, you needed the tangible evidence before you. Your sentimentality was your weakness. Even your stubbornness couldn’t block the overwhelming flood of anxieties and longing.

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Every lie you tell incurs a debt to the truth.” Nanami knew you saw him. He could feel how you ached with dissatisfaction. “Sooner or later, that debt must be paid.”

Slowly, your control weakened. Things had shifted in your sorcery and rumors were spreading. The only truth they held was how deliberately unrestrained you were willing to be. There was no rhyme or reason behind it; at least you were close to convincing yourself of that. Regardless, it had gotten you far, the only thing you’d even consider reliable.

You stopped paying attention to the rumors the more embellished they became. To some, you were a thief, skilled a finding cursed objects and selling them well past their worth; to others, a frenzied psychopath who never lacked the upper hand.

“I know what I’m doing.”

You were far from convincing, but you refused to loose your agency. You relied on Nanami in the past. At one point, you would have considered him the only one that had the privilege. You thought he had understood that.

“You’re out of your depth.” He sipped at his coffee.

“Don’t you feel powerless living in another’s world?” You felt your heart beat against your tightening chest. You felt a needle of pain in your nose like you were near tears. “I used to think it was because I was special, destined for greatness…” You sighed. “I can’t pretend to be naive anymore—

“Then don’t.” Nanami cut you off. “You’re smarter than that.”

“Nanami…” Your tone caught his attention fully, a pondering thought left to float between you. A plead to allow things to settle just for now.

You didn’t want advice or forgiveness. All you sought from him was company. Nanami searched your expression, conflicted about whether to proceed further, but he knew his responsibility was to accept your form of worry on his behalf.

The pie he ordered remained untouched, and he doubted your habit had changed drastically enough to know you wouldn’t remember your last meal. Pulling at his tie, Nanami loosened considerably. In hindsight, he wished he took your image more seriously, not knowing it would be the last time he’d accept your unorthodox amity.

Yet for now, Nanami pushed the plate forward as a temporary olive branch. “Eat.”

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