~ Hello Darlings! I am an aspiring writer and also an extremely enthusiastic enjoyer of many fandoms! I like to write one-shots and x reader stuff about my favorite fictional characters to further indulge my maniacal imagination and keep my writing skills sharp. I'm starting this blog to have a place to post what I dream up and see what fellow fans and enjoyers think of it!
~ If you are under 18 please for the love of all things unholy do not interact with me/read my stuff! Although I am not super explicit with my NSFW, I do write a lot of innuendo/implied/heavy sexual tension so please stay away for both our sakes.
~ I am not currently taking requests, but please feel free to ask me any sort of question or start deep discussions about fictional characters and universes! I am a huge Marvel, Star Wars, and Star Trek fan, as well as VERY into Phantom of the Opera, Lucifer, and almost anything related to vampires. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Transformers are passions of mine as well, and the more niche fandoms I have fallen into are almost too numerous to name. Always happy to meet a fellow fan!
~ Please be kind to each other if you do leave comments! (And I sincerely hope you will!) I want this to be a safe and welcoming space for everyone.
~ I am a Pisces! My favorite color changes almost daily and I love most animals. Music of most genres is an irreplaceable presence in my life and I believe that magic does exist out there somewhere ;)
Summary: Even when the hard lines of war have been drawn in the sand, two halves of one soul will always find a way to collide, if only for a stolen moment.
Pairing: Satoru Gojo x Suguru Geto
Warnings: These two are really, REALLY horny for each other, and forced distance just makes it worse. Also I personally headcanon that Geto is really into edging Gojo because Gojo is such a brat and wants his man to make him beg so bad.
Well tumblr fam, here it is. My first ever GojoxGeto fic (which I started while studying abroad two summers ago, actually). I am clinically insane about this particularly heartrending doomed yaoi; it's probably a good thing I'm not in therapy rn or they and ItaFushi would be all my therapist ever hears about. I could rant for hours about them, it's unhealthy.
*Note: This is my personal theory for how those ten years after the KFC breakup really went down hehe 👀
"We really should stop doing this, you know."
Satoru Gojo pauses abruptly; his long-fingered hands are already deeply occupied with hiking his partner's shirt upwards, caressing their way across the painfully familiar planes of smooth skin beneath, occasionally lightly scratching with his nails just to grin at the trail of tiny shivers he can see ripple in their wake.
All of that to say, he's a little too invested to be pulled up short now.
"We really should," he agrees lazily, letting the honest irony of the statement drip from his tongue as he leans forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to the dip between the other man's pectorals. He clocks the way the muscles stiffen beneath the heat of his mouth and smirks. "But it's a bit late for that now, don't you think?"
Suguru Geto is sprawled before him, shoulders loose and long black hair rolling heavily down to fan out across the sheets under them in a silken mess. Satoru watches in smug satisfaction how his burning touch makes the dark-haired man's chest rise and fall unevenly as his breath quickens, head lolling back and mouth parting in a silent sigh.
It's been way too long since they've had a moment to themselves like this.
"Come on," Satoru purrs, pulling himself forward to spread his filthy kisses up to Suguru's shoulder and collarbone. "One last time. Just for tonight. Pleeeeeeaaassse?"
He promised that the last time.
And the time before that.
And so many times before that they have both lost count, each empty promise crushed from existence beneath the shared weight of their bodies and washed away in the sweat of countless trysts just like this one.
Neither of them mentions that.
Suguru lets one eye flicker open again and hungrily takes in the delicious sight of Satoru Gojo, already stripped naked from the waist up, leaning over him; those unearthly crystal-blue eyes are beacons of light in the dim room, soft silvery-white hair falling down to tickle Suguru's forehead now that their faces are so close and the ever-present blindfold has been carelessly discarded.
He remembers, one of the very first times they'd hidden away from their respective duties to find a sliver of happiness in the forbidden refuge of each other, how Satoru had told him he didn't need the blindfold when they met like this. When everything around him was only gentle darkness and the welcoming refuge of Suguru's body, the constant overstimulation that assaulted his delicate senses could find some temporary relief.
Could he really deny his lover that small comfort?
Suguru snorts, pushes Satoru back before those treacherous lips can find their way up to his own. "We have greater responsibilities to our respective sides now, you know. The others will soon wonder where we've gone."
"Mmm. You, maybe." Satoru pouts briefly at the increased distance between them, but then immediately takes advantage of his new position and slides down further again, eyeing Suguru in an unspoken challenge as he starts toying with the waistband of Suguru's pants with an air of false aimlessness. "As far as anyone at Jujutsu High knows, I'm on a super-important, top-secret mission to monitor a special-grade curse and might be away for an indeterminate amount of time. They won't question me -- any more than usual -- if I disappear for a bit." He punctuates his haughty statement with another sultry kiss to Suguru's lower stomach, making his skin twitch involuntarily.
He's always been shrewd with how he wields his enormous status to his advantage, Suguru has to give him that.
"What would you do if they ever found us in such a...compromising position?" he queries, finishing the job of removing his own shirt and fully reclining back, smirking as he catches the white-haired man's gaze glued to the supple movements of his torso with a blatant lack of subtlety.
"Easy." Satoru flicks him a careless glance and a laugh, tongue flashing insolently between glinting teeth. "We turn it into a fight. You know, just two men doing some good old-fashioned grappling."
"Ugh. How undignified." Suguru sneers down at him, knocks his hand away from straying too far, too quickly. Satoru might like his own gratification to be swift and intense; personally he's always found an end goal all the sweeter for a bit of slow torture first. "When have sorcerers of our caliber ever grappled?"
His partner pushes himself upward again, impatience and sheer need emanating off of him in hot, urgent waves. "I don't think that's the part they would question, Suguru. More imminent would be our obvious lack of clothes, I assume." His alabaster body is tense, practically vibrating as the massive energy usually contained within its boundaries begs for a merciful release, and even Suguru's practiced composure slips a bit at the picture he makes, all lean, sharp lines and luminous skin that seems to go on forever. He's always had a superiority complex -- they both do, and at least his isn't as bad as Satoru's -- but it gives him a particularly ruthless joy, to know that most of the world would kill to be in his exact position right now.
To have Satoru Gojo, strongest sorcerer of the modern age, brimming with unbridled hunger, on top of them.
And yet it's a pleasure reserved for him, and him alone.
Life's small mysteries really were too sweet, sometimes.
"What are you laughing at?" Satoru whines, eyes sharp as glass shards. "What I said wasn't even that funny."
"No, it wasn't." Suguru leans up on his elbows again, hotly kisses the corner of his lover's mouth but breaks away before the other man's ravenous lips can reciprocate. "But watching you fall apart is."
Satoru's right hand darts out, those long, elegant fingers wrapping around Suguru's throat, and he can't help but almost swallow his own tongue in surprise, heat rushing to his lower abdomen.
"I know you're every bit as pathetic for me behind that damn mask of a face you wear," Satoru taunts. "Don't try and pretend otherwise with me."
He swallows Suguru into a biting kiss before he can make a reply, both men gasping into each other's mouths as Satoru's hands migrate to tangle in Suguru's hair, one of Suguru's lifting to stroke down the full curve of Satoru's spine, feeling his core muscles tighten as his hips rock forward.
Suguru sees his chance and shoves one leg between Satoru's lean thighs, pulling out of the kiss to intently watch the agony take over his lover's face at the new point of contact, those beautiful eyes pitching heavenwards and a violent shudder racing across his body. He simply admires the view as Satoru gradually settles into a rocking rhythm, and feels his own blood simmer in response.
No, they definitely shouldn't still be doing this. As far as anyone else is aware, they should be trying to kill each other.
But "should" never stopped them from doing whatever they wanted back when they were students, did it?
Maybe he should worry less.
The worries will always be there tomorrow.
Satoru sees the decision made on Suguru's face, and feels that uncanny warmth spread like a flash flood through the pit of his chest -- that strange feeling of true affection that only Suguru Geto has ever managed to fully wring out of him.
"What'd I tell you? Stop worrying about it and just enjoy this, however long it lasts." He casts the other man a heart-stopping look, shameless bedroom eyes glowing through their curtain of feathery white lashes.
"I know I'm enjoying the hell out of you."
Finally he sees Suguru crack, those normally impassive dark eyes widening and his graceful hands curling forcefully into the sheets. Satoru laughs with lunatic abandon at that, feeling the very last of his lingering responsibilities lift from his shoulders. Tonight at least, he has no other concern or objective before him besides the gluttony of their combined pleasures.
And that is the worthiest prize that the Strongest could pursue for the time being.
Suguru scowls at him, though the darkness shadowing his gaze now is purely from lust. "You should really watch that naughty tongue of yours, Gojo."
"Or what, Geto? You'll find something better for it to do than talk bullshit, I imagine?"
Suguru abruptly pulls him closer so he's now straddling the dark-haired man's lap; Satoru's breath catches when his partner leans up to nip at the most vulnerable part of his throat, warm lips lingering there a long moment to simply feel the comforting throb of the devastatingly human pulse beneath his perfect skin.
"You do tempt me. Deeply. Now," he hooks his fingers into Satoru's waistband, pulls and lets the fabric snap back against his hip.
"Rid yourself of these damn things. They are not fit to hide your beauty from my eyes."
God, stumbling across this in the middle of rewatching Hidden Inventory/Premature Death arc for the third time... I think this actually ripped a sob from me. They rewrote my brain chemistry in 2024 and I haven't been okay since.
Thank you for all the feelings this masterpiece brought out 🤍🖤
Based on the fact that both Punisher: One Last Kill and all of Din's fight scenes in The Mandalorian and Grogu made me incredibly horny, I think I am well on my way to fulfilling this promise.
Yay competence in bloodshed ig. Really gets the ovaries going in '26🔥
Summary: It's anyone's guess whether you will be the eventual victor or end up just another casualty, but you've never been one to back down from a good game, especially not when faced with such an intriguing player.
Pairing: Peacekeeper! Coriolanus Snow x fem!District12!Reader
Warnings: Sensuality and sexual tension, references to alcohol, Snow kind of gives off stalker vibes towards reader hehe.
The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes is no joke one of my favorite films of all time. I am obsessed with the story and addicted to the emotional highs and lows that following young Coriolanus's tragic arc brings me. I fully recognize he's a bit of a psycho, but did that fact stop me from falling deeply in love with him and all of his problems? Not one bit. I make no excuses for this maladjusted man or his choices. I'm just here to kiss his pretty face and validate his feelings.
*Takes place sometime during Snow's posting in District 12, kind of an AU where he likely didn't find Lucy Gray again
"You're an enigma to me," he tells you out of the blue one night, as you're clearing away empty dishes and refilling his drink.
You pause only briefly to glance down at him, sitting sprawled there in his usual corner seat, long legs kicked out, body slouched back. Relaxed, but his focus is trained on you like a magnet, crystal blue eyes narrowed and surgically sharp.
He's a fascinating one, this young Peacekeeper with the haunted face and palest blond hair. He's been coming here to the tavern whenever he has leave time for months now, and unlike his compatriots, who either think themselves entirely above your people or simply pounce upon the local women like unwelcome birds of prey, he actually talks sometimes.
You huff a small laugh, looking right back into those deep, cold eyes. "So? What is it to you if I am?"
He leans into the wall at his back, accepting the cup from your hands and raising it to his lips. "It makes me wonder if you're trying to be on purpose. I pride myself on figuring people out."
That sounds like a challenge of some sort, so you prop your tray of dirty dishes against your hip with a playful smirk. "What exactly confuses you about me, Mr. Snow?"
"You don't hate me." The words slide from between his teeth like satin, unhurried and carefully indifferent. "Not like the rest of these people."
"I do know how to make small talk with anyone, Sir. Comes with customer service." Despite your tart response, the grin pulling your lips up on one side is genuine. "You have no idea how I talk about you in the kitchen after I've clocked out for the day."
That finally brings him forward, gaze piercing you even more intensely, his own lips now curving into a sly smile, the kind you see on the merchants' faces right as they're about to close on a particularly lucrative deal.
"Now see, I don't believe that one bit." He almost chuckles at the idea, but not quite. "What I have figured out by now is that you always wear your feelings out in the open, like a bright red coat. If you truly hated me, I would have known it from the first night I drank here."
You're slightly unsettled by that, aware of your heart racing and face growing warm, but it's not from discomfort.
You can't name what it is, exactly, but it's not an unpleasant feeling.
"Maybe I try to see people as people, no matter what they are," you respond with a shrug. "Some Peacekeepers only join up because they thrive on violence, of course. I just don't think that's your story."
His face is so mercurial, its self-satisfied amusement swiftly morphing into a dark scowl. "You know nothing of my story."
"Maybe not." Undeterred, you swipe down his table with the damp cloth from your apron pocket, forcing him to move his elbow or let his uniform get wet. "But I do know what those men look like, Mr. Snow. I've seen them my whole life. You look like a man who does what he must to survive, instead. And I can understand that, if nothing else."
He looks away, takes a long drink, apparently declining to say anything in answer to that.
But as you turn to move on to your next table, he reaches out, brushes the backs of his fingers across your forearm, making you look back.
"Will I see you again next time?" he queries softly.
"I have this shift most days of the week," you reply lightly. "And on my days off I stay here for the music anyway."
He nods shortly, sits back against the wall again. "Good."
You finally step away, distancing yourself from his orbit that always seems so difficult to leave.
"Take care. I'll see you again, Mr. Snow."
You spot him in his usual seat a second before he sees you -- the crowd is thick tonight, making the air warm and the shadows in the corners of the tavern practically breathe as they ripple with movement. He looks oddly put out as you approach his table.
"I've had a different server so far tonight," he mutters, lips pursing in accusation as if that fact is somehow your fault.
You laugh. "It's my day off, Snow. I came here for the dancing, not to be your serving girl for once."
A spark of realization flickers across his face, turning it ever so slightly less severe. "Well, you can't blame me for missing your superior pour, can you?" He knocks back the rest of his drink and flashes you a glittering smile that showcases his perfect teeth for all of a half-second.
"You flatter me." A tempting beat is starting up from the main stage now, and impulsively you hold out a hand.
"Come dance. It's a good time."
He calculates -- you, the distance he would have to cross to take your hand, the way the music is already starting to intoxicate your body. "Maybe. Ask me again in a few songs and after another drink."
You send him an exaggerated pout and run away to join the center of the main room, where your people are starting to clap, stomp, and spin, and you slip right into the beautiful chaos, searching for partners and singing along with the well-loved song.
Snow appears among the ring of spectators after only the first dance, having quickly realized that you were in some high demand as a dance partner and that he doesn't want to completely miss his chance to talk to you more. As the next tune starts up at the talented hands of the live musicians, he abruptly cuts in front of a district boy and closes his long fingers around your wrist, pulling you to him.
"Ready for that dance now?" he asks, dripping with the kind of confidence that tells you he knows you won't refuse him.
You breathlessly nod as the two of you test your rhythms together, a few exploratory steps before the music gets going in earnest.
Then you're squarely in the midst of all the noise and motion, and even though he's not from 12 his steps are certain and the pressure of his hands as he moves you around him is steady, and you wonder if that's his keen observation at work again, if he's watched the dancing here closely enough on other nights that he picked it up so well.
"A true mystery," he breathes into your hair as he brings you in close to his body again. "When a deer is given the opportunity to escape the hound, they don't usually go running right back to it."
"You're weren't hunting me, last time I checked."
You don't miss the way he raises a dark eyebrow and neither confirms nor denies your statement.
"And besides, I'm not afraid of you. We've been over this before."
"Hmm." He lifts you in time with the other dancers, his hands grasping your waist so slender but terribly strong. "You like this, don't you."
You're not at all sure if he means the banter, or the way he's holding you right now, and to tell the truth deep down, you think the answer might be the same either way. So you only smile -- not a clear answer -- as he sweeps you around and back to the safety of the floor, stepping away lightly and then turning you back in to press against his tall, lean body for a moment.
"What do you want?" he asks curiously.
From tonight?
From him?
From your strange metaphorical dance that parallels this dance of flesh and blood?
He seems to enjoy when you've been coy with him so far, so you simply push away from him again, a gentle press of your fingertips against his firm chest.
"Maybe I can show you sometime, Mr. Snow?"
He reels you right back in, your back now flush against his chest and abdomen, feeling the lean muscles of his harsh Peacekeeper training as they flex into your soft flesh through the useless barrier of your clothes. A demanding arm traps you there, his other hand drifting upwards to brush your hair away from your neck, skirting ever so weightlessly over your collarbone and shoulder and leaving little flashes of warmth in its wake.
"Coriolanus," he murmurs in your ear, lips barely skimming your skin. "You can use it, if you like."
His first name?
Heat blossoms across your body, surprising you with its hunger.
Then you're suddenly plunged into the sharp chill of his absence as the music fades and he releases you like you burned him, staring down at you with his damned arrogant smirk.
"I believe you will show me what pleases you, eventually," he remarks as he starts to back away from the throng once more, still not breaking that blazing eye contact.
"But only because I will keep watching, and I will figure you out, just as I always do."
Summary: Your coworker is a little too curious about just how close your relationship with your (very hot) roommate could possibly be.
Pairing: Roommate! Frank Castle x fem!Reader
Warnings: Established relationship, very loosely referenced smut, honestly this one is just pretty fluffy overall. I do spend way too much time and too many of my words simply describing Frank Castle because I love him, your honor.
I genuinely don't know where this one came from, to be fully honest. I think I kind of blacked out in one of my hyper-hormonal hazes and just...came to with this little fluffy thing in my hands. I desire to lie in bed with soft domestic Frank for hours on end with my whole feminine reproductive system heart and yeah this is pretty much what I want for my life, please and thank you.
"I have to know," your coworker suddenly bursts out, in a terribly loud stage whisper.
"What?"
"You have to tell me what the deal is with Tall, Dark, and Daddy over there. Cause he never even comes into the shop on your days off, so don't try and give me some bullshit about not knowing him."
You feel a tiny flutter deep down in your chest at the realization that Frank must stay in and make his own coffee unless he has the certain excuse to see you. It's oddly sweet of him, and threatens to turn your insides to mush as so many of his small actions do.
He's at the small table in the far corner, chair leaned slightly back against the wall, one of his legs bouncing up and down in that constant state of being-on-edge that both haunts and favors him, reading an actual newspaper like some goddamn stubborn anti-technology crusader. He looks like bad news in his heavy combat boots with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up so that just the forward-most curls of his dark hair stick out, the corner of his mouth occasionally slanting even further downward as he chews on his bottom lip.
You might have to tell him sometime. He could seriously be mistaken for a lowlife casing the joint.
Though he'd probably just laugh at that.
"That's the roommate," you finally answer her as you wipe down the counter, shrugging and trying to keep your voice casual. "Pete. We split rent."
Her jaw has hit the floor.
"I'm sorry, wait, you LIVE with Tall, Dark, and Daddy? When you said you'd found someone to share the apartment, I dunno I just, I didn't picture him."
You smirk. "Trust me, neither did I."
She scoots closer to you so you can't escape her burning curiosity. "You have to have...y'know. At least once. I mean, he is HOT."
"I guess so?" Thank god the heat is on today so you can wave away the aggressive warmth that floods your skin. "I mind my business and he does his own thing, whatever that is. We don't really see a whole lot of each other."
Lies.
You don't know why, but you flick a glance at Frank after saying that, and your stomach swoops when his dark eyes brush heavily past yours and those unfairly pretty lips curve into a slow grin that almost shows teeth.
Can he hear your conversation?
"Oh you must see more of each other than that, for him to visit the shop every day you work!"
Her choice of words merely repeats back what you had just said to her a moment ago, and yet it triggers an avalanche of secret moments in your head, of your bodies pressed together in the shower, so close even the water can't run between you, of how his fingers handle your body as skillfully as any weapon, of the way your lips can make his stoic breath stutter for just a second.
Only that morning you'd had to untangle yourself from his iron grasp, gently pushing away his reaching hands as he tried to pull you back under the blankets with him. You had leaned down to press a kiss to his temple, another on his cheekbone; he had smiled so softly at you, his eyes still distant with sleepiness, and stroked your disheveled hair.
"I have to go, Frankie. I'm opening today."
"I know, Sweetheart, I know. Miss you when you're gone, s'all."
In real time, he catches the faraway look on your face, snorts, and turns back to his paper and coffee. But his trigger finger is tapping out a quick rhythm on his thigh now, and you know that he's just waiting for your shift replacement to get here so he can take you home with him again.
You glance back at your coworker, who is blissfully oblivious to everything that was just nonverbally exchanged between you.
"Yeah, not really. I hardly know the guy, but he's been a good roommate so far and he looks out for me, in his own way."
"You're insane for not at least trying to get some," she mutters incredulously.
You simply laugh and throw the rag at her.
If only she had any idea what you've gotten since he moved in.
I’m obsessed with your Ascended Astarion fic, is there any chance you would write more for him?
Hi!!! Thank you so much!!! 😍🖤
There is definitely a good chance I will write more Ascended Astarion in the future, writing that fic was such a delightful experience for me and I loved every minute of it! I have quite a few completed drafts for my other fandoms that I still need to publish before I write too much more new material, but I do actually have some notes and concepts for another Ascended Astarion fic sitting in a document on my laptop...
I'm so very glad you like the one I already published!
Greetings from the Abyss, fellow lovers of all things freaky!! 🖤
So sorry I seemingly disappeared to go get the milk last summer (it's okay, I don't mind if you call me daddy 😏) I promise I've still been lurking about and paying attention to everything and am so SO grateful for everyone who continues to interact with my fics! Adulting got reeeeeaaaallll busy and complicated for a hot minute but I am inspired and determined to return to my creative roots for 2026 and keep feeding all of our demented collective fantasies soon!
I still have many many drafts to publish in several fandoms that I can't wait to share! Love you all dearly and know that in our very scary world at the moment, you can always come talk to me. We are in this shit together, even if that simply means gathering and lusting over large, angry men covered in blood.
So, a few weeks late, Happy New Year, and hopefully soon I'll have a moment to post some more spicy fics! 🫶🏻
OMG 2 years of my tumblr account already? 🥳 Thanks to everyone who makes this place so much fun to hang out and create! I know I've been a bit absent lately, but I'm settling into my new job and just moved into a house so hopefully life will allow me some fanfic time again soon! Much love!! 🫶🏻
Summary: When Frank calls you during a mission after an extended period of radio silence, what could possibly make him break his own no-contact rule?
Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!Reader
Warnings: Some language; this is practically just phone sex in every way except for me explicitly stating so ;)
I think I just need to accept at this point that my Frank fics will always get away from me in the end. This one started on the 🤭 side of the scale and by the time I reached the end it had somehow reached unprecedented levels of 🥵. In any case, I love the idea of normally taciturn Frank missing talking to reader and just calling her up out of the blue to tell her that. And then I guess everything just devolved from there, as it so often does.
When you answered your phone, your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape from your body right through your chest wall.
He never called.
Had something gone so horribly wrong that he needed to say goodbye?
"Frank?!"
"Hey there, pretty girl." His voice sounded bone-tired, but warm with affection, and your panic started to subside. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's okay," you had murmured. "You just know how I worry."
"I do." The rough laugh on the other side of the line turns your insides into a melting mess. "Just needed to hear my girl's voice for a minute. Long day."
You lie back on the bed again, letting out a quiet breath of relief.
"I miss you, tough guy."
He hums wordlessly in acknowledgement, and you can imagine him settling back against a wall somewhere, finally letting his overexerted body relax.
"Tell me what you're wearing?"
He sounds softer now, almost a little hesitant. "I wanna picture what you look like right now."
Heat rushes to your face. "Nothing special. Just one of your shirts I uh...'borrowed'. I hope that's okay."
There's silence for a moment on the other end, then a sharp hissing sound that you imagine must be him sucking in a breath between his teeth.
"Shit, baby, lookin' like that without me there to see it? You know how I feel about you wearin' my stuff. Goddammit."
You smile and stroke the threadbare fabric between your fingers. "I know, Frank, I'm sorry. But it smells like you, and I missed you so bad today. It helps me sleep at night when you're not here with me."
He chuckles softly, a deep rumbling that you feel all the way in the pit of your chest even through the phone's less-than-ideal sound quality. "Alright, alright. Which one?"
"Black. Slightly thicker fabric, buttoned collar." You tap the worn-smooth buttons with your fingertips as you say the words, an unconscious fidgeting habit.
"That old one with the holes in the sleeves?" He's way too good at this, guessed exactly which piece you would've taken refuge in during his absence.
"Damn, Frank," you breathe out, shocked at his accuracy. "How'd you tell?" He does own at least four different shirts that match the brief description you'd given.
You hear him grunt, probably a blend of approval and the soreness that comes from doing god-knows-what for the past few days. "You like that one. Only reason it's still in the closet, to tell the truth. Would've thrown it out a long time ago otherwise."
A flood of memories rushes through your mind: cuddling up to him, in bed, on the couch, his hands in your hair and his lips brushing your forehead, warm and safe in the folds of this very same shirt. "I'm really glad you kept it, then."
"I am too." A long sigh, and the rustling sounds of his large body shifting position. "Your hair up or down?"
The warmth rapidly returns to your face. Is what you think is happening actually happening?
You wouldn't have guessed Frank was an over-the-phone kind of guy, he prefers to be hands-on in every aspect of his life, but the two of you had spent so much time together lately, maybe the separation is getting to him, too.
"It's down. I took a shower earlier and wanted to let it air dry for a bit." Your voice comes out soft, vulnerable as you answer him and lean further into the pillows behind you.
"Mmm. You know if I was there I'd help you get all the tangles out, yeah?"
You shiver at the thought of his big hands in your hair, those long, dexterous fingers patiently combing their way through, their passage sometimes halting where your comb had missed a spot. "You say that now, Castle, but how do I know you wouldn't be putting more tangles in?"
His taken-off-guard laugh rasps in your ear. "Hey now, you watch that pretty mouth of yours. Don't taunt me like that." A brief moment of consideration, a heavy pause as he imagines you on top of him, that damn shirt swallowing your figure and your teasing face looking down into his. "Maybe I would."
"Thought so." You stick the fingers of your free hand through the aforementioned holes in his shirt. "I hate this bed, Frankie."
"Yeah? Why's that? Don't be a smartass now, I practically built that bed for you."
"It's too big and empty without you." You channel all of the sad, bratty tone you can possibly muster into that simple sentence.
"Christ."
You're not quite sure if the strain you hear running beneath his voice comes from exhaustion or something else you're starting. "My girl's lonely there all by herself, huh?"
"Yeah. I need you to come back, Frank."
"Shit, I know, Sweetheart. I know. I need you, too." His breath hitches, barely noticeable but you know him, and you catch it.
"You lonely without me too, tough guy?"
He hums, a non-answer, deliberately drawing the conversation out. "Look, I like bashing faces in as much as the next guy, but the people I'm after are a little bit lacking in the affection department."
You put the phone down, switching it to speaker mode and settling into a better position. "So you're touch-starved, is what I'm hearing."
You know he must be scowling and shaking his head at the accusation on the other end of the line. "Nah, I wouldn't say that, exactly --"
"Well I am." Your admission comes out as little more than a breathy sigh. "Do you have any idea how hard that is?"
He only snorts at that, and you feel gratified that the implication landed.
"I can't even watch TV at night without wishing your hand was here resting on my thigh like usual," you tell him wistfully.
A long, huffed-out exhale precedes his next words, and you grin wickedly at the sound. "Yeah, Sweetheart. I miss how you count all my scars when we're just lyin' in bed and neither of us can sleep."
"You got any new ones for me?"
The unsteadiness is completely impossible to keep out of your own voice now as you close your eyes, remembering how it feels when his hands are the ones touching you instead.
"Probably." A sharp intake of air interrupts him for a brief moment. "Not gonna tell you where, though. I'll let you find 'em all on your own when I get back."
Your entire body shudders violently at such an invitation. "I will, Frankie. I'll find all of your new scars, I promise. I'll kiss 'em for you, too -- maybe even bite 'em, if they're in good places."
"Shit."
There's a sudden vacuum left in the air between you after his sharply spat expletive, only the uneven rhythm of two people dozens of miles apart trying to catch their breath breaking the delicate silence. You pick your phone up again and bring it close to your face so you can hear his breathing right in your ear; if you keep your eyes shut, you can almost imagine he's right there in the bed with you.
"You're dangerous, you know that," he mutters after a bit. "Got me all distracted out here like some asshole amateur."
"Hey, you called me," you point out, warmth pouring into your contrary words. "I know you're not completely naive, Castle."
"Ah, get off my ass. Was a momentary lapse in judgement, s'all. Happens to the best of us."
"Mmhmm." You trace a small heart on the blanket next to the phone. "Right. Well, you better get back here soon then, and avoid any more mistakes like this, huh?"
"I will." His promise is gentle, but steel-hard with sheer conviction underneath.
"Won't be long, baby girl. Can't wait to have you with me for real again."
Summary: All it takes is one single kiss, one vulnerable night, to disrupt a longstanding pattern of comfortable deniability.
Pairing: Evan "Buck" Buckley x Eddie Diaz
Warnings: Eddie goes on a bit of a panic spiral as only Eddie Diaz can, my boys are sad yet somehow also manage to avoid talking through all their feelings, implied smut.
I am such a hardcore Buddie shipper and they have caused me so much brainrot it isn't even funny. This little thing came to me all at once very late one night and refused to release me from its grip until I wrote it down. There are so many ways that these two could get possibly together; this is just one of my many ideas :)
*Note: Kind of an AU, takes place pre- 07x04
It's only 5:00 in the morning, and Eddie Diaz is already deep in the throes of a personal crisis.
The gloomy voice in his brain that's always lurking just in the background sarcastically asks him what else is new, and he crossly brushes that thought away even as he thrashes in the tangled blankets, trying to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep.
It's different this time, Eddie old boy, and you know that.
He's never had a 5:00 am crisis over sleeping with his best friend before.
Who is he?
Buck spent the night at the Diaz house quite frequently, had been doing so for the handful of years they'd been friends. That wasn't the strange part, not even close. An intimate dinner, just the two of them and Christopher, all three of them snuggled together on the couch watching TV afterwards, him and Buck leaning on the island in the kitchen in the half-darkness, shoulder to shoulder, talking in low murmurs and sipping a beer.
All of that was normal.
All of that was perfect.
Perfectly normal.
Right?
And sure, when he'd had a couple of drinks Eddie found it harder to tear his gaze away from Evan Buckley's eyes sometimes, those eyes that were a prettier blue than the sea around them could ever hope to match, those eyes that were somehow so full of shattered dreams and fragile heart and yet at the same time the warmest, softest eyes Eddie has ever looked into.
Sure, when it's late at night and exhaustion strips away his inhibitions a little he's stared at those pretty lips for just too long whenever Evan Buckley laughs at his own dubious wit, or even better when it's Eddie that makes him smile, that strange, slow smile that creeps across the other man's wide mouth from one corner to the other and makes him turn his head away like a shy boy.
And yes, he loves Buck, trusts him more than any other person on this damn earth, but that's all it was, right?
His best friend.
His best friend who's been struggling lately, holding too much inside like always, who's obviously been burdened with the crushing weight of too many things he shouldn't have to carry alone, even though no one else seems to see it.
Haunted, beautiful Evan Buckley whose voice had cracked the night before when he'd admitted "I don't even know how I'm staying afloat anymore, Eddie," -- who had crumpled into Eddie's arms like he always does when he can't stand on his own two feet anymore.
And Eddie had held the other man close, said all the things he could think of that could reassure Buck in a fierce whisper under his breath, had felt the shift in the air when, at last, Buck finally raised his face from Eddie's chest again.
He'd felt like an outside observer watching a movie in slow motion when Buck had straightened up and kissed him, the brush of his lips barely even feeling real with all of his intense hesitation.
Buck had immediately drawn back from Eddie, looking all of a sudden terrified and much smaller than the reality of his huge frame should allow.
"Sorry," he'd whispered, breathy with horror. "I don't know what I --"
"Don't," Eddie had ordered sternly -- he hated when Buck felt like he had to apologize for his boundless displays of affection.
And it could have just ended there.
Could have ended there, and everything would be fine. Things could have stayed the same, or as close as possible, at least.
But to his own surprise, Eddie had reached out for Buck's face instead, cradling his jaw, gently guiding those pretty blue eyes back to his own and hating the preemptive self-loathing he already saw darkening there, the visceral fear that Buck had just ruined the most stable relationship he had.
"Just don't," Eddie repeated, and had pulled his best friend in for another kiss.
He was distantly surprised to find that he felt none of the usual spikes of panic that so often clawed at his chest whenever he spontaneously acted upon such instincts.
Everything after that was a bit blurry in his currently half-asleep memory, but he knows that all of it felt right, that it somehow made sense. His hands reassuring Buck as Buck's hands explored, the knowledge that he lost count of how many times they had kissed after number nine.
They ended up in his bed somehow, clothes forgotten on the floor. It all felt natural, the whole progression of it, simply one more step in the forward evolution of who they were. The way they both checked in at every stage to make sure they weren't overstepping, the freely offered suggestion of more whenever the other was too timid to ask for it.
And strangely enough, in the shower after, there was no laughter between them, no "never thought we'd end up here," jokes.
There were barely any words at all, and he does remember how they just stood there, under the hot water for an indeterminate amount of time with their foreheads pressed closely together as they traced each other's tattoos and scars with their fingertips.
Buck could have gone back to his usual spot on the couch after that.
But he didn't.
He'd slept in Eddie's bed, his cheek resting just above Eddie's heart, and Eddie would bet his next three paychecks that they both slept better for those few hours than they had in maybe years (comas excluded, of course).
But then Buck had left, after the unfairly tender gesture of sweeping Eddie's sleep-ruffled hair back from his forehead for a moment, only the fading of his rustling sounds as he hurriedly dressed signaling his departure.
He's probably too scared to talk about it now that the rest of the world is awake.
What "it" even is, Eddie has no idea anymore.
Best friends can help each other out with a little stress release now and again, right?
Right?
He sighs and rolls over again, and catches the faintest trace of Buck's aftershave still clinging to the pillowcase beside him, closing his eyes and letting the familiar scent lull him out of his frenzied, mile-a-minute thoughts.
Wrong.
He's pretty sure by now that he's simply, undeniably in love with Evan Buckley.
It's gotten to the point that whenever I start consuming new media my friends now tell me who they think I'll end up becoming attached to (and to my chagrin they're almost always correct)
