#Pining

[oneforblu]

romance as a subplot is SOOOOO GOODDDDD because 98% of the time it's an intense slowburn that develops over several chapters. the story focuses on the plot or character development more but somehow it makes the romance SO MUCH BETTER!!! idk how to explain it it's just so good...like when an author's focus is more on characters and plot it gives you as the reader a deeper connection to the characters which makes the romantic/platonic aspect so much better

[levanswrites]

in this foolish lover's game

pairing: steve harrington x eddie munson (x reader)

summary: “And I was thinking about… maybe getting her something, for her birthday. Just like… surprise her, y’know?”

And that. That stops Eddie cold.

Because he’s seen things—blood, rot, fangs, psychic carnage. Hell, literal Hell.

But nothing—not a single goddamn thing—could prepare him for the image of Steve Harrington wandering wide-eyed through a dingy sex shop in rural Indiana, trying to pick out a vibrator for his sweet little girlfriend.

warnings: 18+, discussions of sex toys/adult store, sexual fantasies, heavy pining, yearning, light angst, eddie's pov, period-typical internalized homophobia, bisexual!eddie, eddie's kind of a horndog in this one but still so so sweet, friends to lovers, eventual smut, eventual steddie x reader but reader is only mentioned in this one. title by berlin.

It starts with a rumor, as most things do in Hicktown Central, Hawkins, Indiana.

Whispers turned into tales turned into legends, and before you know it, Eddie Munson can’t take a piss in the B-wing bathroom without hearing that damn story all over again.

Betty Callahan.

Now known exclusively—irrevocably—as Battery Betty.

A sophomore volleyball player with a college boyfriend and a neon scrunchie collection. Sent to the principal’s office on a random Tuesday for ‘behavior unbecoming.’ No one really knows what happened—just that it involved a locker, a hum, and some deeply repressed panic.

The rumor spreads like brush fire.

Tampon turned taser turned sex toy. Shame’s favorite game of Telephone.

By the time it reaches Eddie, the details are warped six ways to Sunday.

That a bullet vibrator buzzed to life during algebra. Fell out of her gym bag in the girls’ locker room and startled wriggling across the tile. Got lost between the bleachers and nearly gave Coach Walt another heart attack—poor bastard's already got a limp from the ’82 dodgeball incident.

Out of everything, Eddie will give that last one credit. It's got flair.

But he doesn’t dwell on it. Just tosses it to the burning pile of Hawkins-brand hysteria and moves on.  

Rumors, gossip, cheap currency—Eddie Munson doesn’t traffic in petty change. Until, apparently... now.

“Off Route 9?”

“Yeah. You know, that place with the cartoon pickle on the billboard?”

Steve Harrington’s voice floats over, casual as the breeze.

Eddie snorts, cracks open his soda with a sharp psssft.

“You mean the sex shop.”

 Steve nods, sips. “Yeah. You been?”

“Couple times,” Eddie shrugs. “Used to deal to a guy who worked there. Freaky little dude with a lazy eye. Big into latex.”

Steve laughs, quiet.

“You know if he’s still there?”

Eddie lowers the can. Leans back against the railing like a cat sensing a storm front. Eyes him, slow.

“What’s this about, Harrington? You finally caving to the dark side?”

“No, just…”  Steve huffs a laugh, reaches up to scratch the back of his neck—a tell.

“You uh… you hear about George Callahan’s sister?”

Oh. Oh no.

“Battery Betty?”

Steve nods. “Yeah. Just… the whole thing kinda got me thinking, you know?”

 Oh, no.

Eddie lifts a delicate hand to his chest, all slow, theatrical scandal. His voice dips into velvet.

“Steven Harrington, are you propositioning me?”

He expects a laugh. Hell, wants one. Needs one. But Steve doesn’t bite. Doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he gives Eddie this look—curious, a little amused, head cocked like a golden retriever hearing jazz for the first time —and then glances away, grinning into the dirt.

“No, man. I’m serious. I’m trying to do something for my girlfriend. She heard about the whole thing and she’s been…”

Steve trails off with a half-laugh, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Fuck, it’s too hot for this. The cicadas are screaming.

Eddie licks his lips. “Ah, caught the little perversion plague, did she?” His fingers twitch. “It’s an epidemic, y’know. First sign of the apocalypse. That and Reagan getting re-elected.”

Steve chuckles, low and private, shrugging. His hands disappear into the front pockets of his jeans—too tight, always a little too tight.

“Yeah, well. Word really got around.”

A breath.

“And I was thinking about… maybe getting her something, for her birthday. Just like… surprise her, y’know?”

And that. That stops Eddie cold.

Because he’s seen things—blood, rot, fangs, psychic carnage. Hell, literal Hell.

But nothing—not a single goddamn thing—could prepare him for the image of Steve Harrington wandering wide-eyed through a dingy sex shop in rural Indiana, trying to pick out a vibrator for his sweet little girlfriend.

And then there’s the other part. The part Eddie wishes he could ignore even harder.

You. God, you.

You, laughing into Steve’s neck while he fumbles with a gift bag behind his back, red to the roots and trying to act tough about it.

You, sprawled across his bed like a sin-drenched cat, lips bitten, eyes sparkling. You, flushed and wrecked, Steve’s hand splayed over your stomach while the other holds something that whirs.

Fuck.                                           

Goddamn it.

Eddie clenches his jaw. The soda hisses in his grip. His lungs feel full of sand—hot, dry, impossible to breathe around.

Because he shouldn’t be thinking about it. He knows that.

But he is.

And it’s not just the filth—though, Jesus, that’s definitely there, loud and detailed and stupidly cinematic.

It’s the intimacy. The effort. Steve wanting to make you feel good, caring enough to ask.

And Eddie’s curiosity turns sharp. Hungry.

“So, what are you thinking?” he hears himself say, voice a shade too low. “Like a… starter kit?”

Steve’s face lights up. “Yeah, exactly.”

His smile is wide, boyish. Eddie’s head is pounding.

“Something fun, y’know? Something she’d actually be into. And maybe, like, something we could try together.”

We.

We.

Eddie’s pulse kicks like a mule. You. Steve. Trying things. He clears his throat, cracks his knuckles against his thigh like that’ll knock the image out of his head.

“Wow,” He plays it cool, because of course he does. Because Eddie Munson doesn’t rattle easy, not after Hell and teeth and gates and blood. “And they say romance is dead.”  

That makes Steve blush. Pink blooming up his neck, right to the tips of his ears.

And Eddie waits for that usual flicker of something—amusement, maybe— that smug little thrill when he manages to get under someone’s skin.

But it doesn’t come.

Just weight—something heavy sitting low in his chest, twisted and hard to name.

He shifts uncomfortably, kicking a pebble with his toe to watch it skitter off the trailer steps, bouncing across metal.

From beside him, Steve’s voice floats back over.

“I was thinking about checking it out. See what they have. But, uh…”

 He hesitates. Rubs the back of his neck again.

“… kind of feels like uncharted territory.”

There’s a pause. Heavy. Humming.

Then Steve lifts his gaze, infuriatingly steady, a slow smirk playing at his lips.

“You really gonna make me ask, Munson?”

Eddie Munson blinks. Once. Twice. The cicadas keep screaming. His soda fizzes in his palm, forgotten. It’s too hot for this.

And Eddie—poor, twisted, sharp-tongued Eddie—finds himself drowning in silence.

Mouth opening then shutting, useless as a landed fish.

He takes another swig, the prickle of metallic fizz doing absolutely nothing to shut up the noise in his head.

Steve's still watching. All easy elbows and sunlit forearms and that cocky half-grin that never quite hides how earnest he really is. Hair sticking to his temple, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt.

Like he didn’t just drop a conversational landmine and go right back to sipping his soda.

You really gonna make me ask, Munson?  

Eddie’s knee bounces. He wants to claw his skin off. Or maybe throw himself directly into the sun. That’d be simpler.

He could say no.

He should say no.

You’re Steve’s girl. Steve, who fought beside him. Bled beside him. Who’s seen him—like, really seen him—and somehow still keeps coming back.

And with you, well, Eddie’s already too far gone to think clearly when it comes to you. The softest laugh. Eyes so bright they nearly burn. And the biggest heart Eddie’s ever known.

He also knows, deep down, that this is playing with fire—not the kind you brag about, not lighters, or stage pyros, or matchbooks behind the gym. No, this… this is the kind that could scorch everything if he’s not careful.

He runs a tongue over his teeth. Wipes a hand down his jeans, where the sweat’s sticking fabric to skin.

He should say no.

But his voice betrays him, always does.

“You sure you want my input?”

Steve tilts his head, brows drawn, like it’s the dumbest question he’s heard all week.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Eddie barks out a laugh—short, bitter, ugly. His rings clap against denim.

“Gee, I dunno, man. Maybe ‘cause you’re shopping for a birthday vibrator for your girlfriend, and I’m...”  

He waves at the air around himself, trailer-park gasoline, but he’s not even sure what it’s supposed to mean.  

Steve just snorts, undeterred. “Exactly. You’re the expert.”

He says it with a grin, but there’s no malice in it. None of the shit other people layer into that word.

Just seasoned, expert freak Eddie.

“You’ve got taste,” Steve adds, a little softer now. “And you don’t weird out easy. I figured you’d be honest with me. Help me pick out something she’ll actually like.”

He shrugs. Leans back like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not burning through every frayed wire in Eddie’s brain.

“And,” Steve adds, like it’s an afterthought, “I trust you.”

And that—that’s what does him in.

Not the shop. Not the toys.

Not even the unholy image of you moaning into Steve’s mouth while he shows you what he—they, fuck—bought.

It’s the way he says that. Like it’s just a fact. Like it’s always been true.

Eddie exhales. Looks down at his shoes, at the scuffed floorboards. Anywhere but at Steve.

His voice is quiet when it comes.

“…Yeah.” A pause. A swallow. Then:

“Yeah, okay. I’m in.”

And Steve smiles—god, he beams—like Eddie just agreed to help him move his couch.

“All right, Munson.” He pushes off the railing, stretches, dusts off his hands like this is all settled now. “We’ll swing by tomorrow? After Hellfire?”

Eddie nods. Just once. Tight.

“Cool. Later, man.” Steve nudges his foot against Eddie’s like a kid saying goodbye at recess, then hops down the trailer steps, whistling something breezy as he goes.

Eddie stays where he is.

His soda’s warm now. His shirt’s stuck to his back. The air’s thick with heat and cicada song and a thousand tangled thoughts he can’t quite name.

He shouldn’t think about it. About you. About the we.

But he is.

And he knows—he knows—he won’t be able to stop anytime soon.

He smirks into the lip of his can and drains the last sip, bitter and flat and nowhere near strong enough.

“Later, man.”

They pull up in front of the place just after seven.

The sign above the door reads THE VELVET PICKLE—a holdover from the billboard off the highway, complete with a smug little cartoon gherkin giving a thumbs up. Half the bulbs in Pickle are dead, so it just reads VELVET PI---E, like it's trying to be coy. A cherry-shaped neon light buzzes low overhead, red and tired.

Eddie slings the van into the lopsided parking spot, gravel crunching under his tires. The sky's bleeding out golden, streaked with wisps of pink and lavender. Neither of them has said a word since they turned off the main road.

Eddie cuts the engine, glances sideways.

“You ready, big boy?” he smirks, teeth sharp, ignoring the drumbeat pounding in his throat.

The entrance looks worse up close—blackout film peeling at the corners, and a laminated red sign that blares: NO RETURNS. NO EXCEPTIONS. DON’T ASK.

Eddie swallows as he pushes the door open, stepping into the blast of recycled air and fluorescent lighting.

The smell hits first: thick, stale—something between old rubber and dollar-store strawberry. The air conditioner wheezes overhead like it’s been smoking unfiltered Camels since '72. Swampy heat clings to the walls, and the dim red glow casts a sticky haze that makes everything feel vaguely pornographic, even the welcome mat.

A cardboard cutout of a nurse with D-cups and a 7-inch ‘thermometer’ greets them at the door, dead-eyed and faded.

Eddie whistles low. “Yep. Still classy.”

Steve steps in behind him, immediately knocking his elbow into a rotating rack of fishnet stockings and crotchless panties, the metal jangling like a wind chime in a haunted house.

“Shit.”

Eddie bites the inside of his cheek, turning to watch as Steve wrestles with a tangled pair of edible underwear.

He tries not to grin too hard. “You alright there, Harrington?”

Steve shoots him a look—half sheepish, half stubborn—hand stuffed back in those too-tight Levis, eyeing the mannequins by the door like they might start swinging their riding crops.

Eddie smirks. “Welcome to the jungle, baby.”

Inside, the shop is a claustrophobic maze, shelves so packed you have to sidle through. Old VHS pornos, glitter-labeled lube bottles. A bin near the front holds a bunch of novelty junk—fuzzy handcuffs, penis-shaped pasta, and a vibrating rubber duck that’s seen better days.

Eddie tries to walk like he owns the place. Not his first rodeo. Yet his heart is pounding so loud it feels like it could rip right out of his chest.

He eyes the guy at the register—new, definitely not Latex Larry.

This one looks like someone’s half-retired uncle; flannel rolled to the elbows, a pair of readers perched low on his nose as he flips through a wrinkled copy of Popular Mechanics. Doesn’t even glance up.

“Evening. Tuesdays are ten percent off if you don’t ask any questions.”

They move slowly past a shelf marked Couple’s Play—feather ticklers, leather cuffs, two dozen plugs in every color and shape you can imagine.

Steve briefly stalls in front of a black silk blindfold, fingers brushing the fabric.

“Think she’d be into this?”

Eddie’s mouth is instantly dry.

No, he’s fine. Shut up.

He raises a brow, deadpans: “Yeah, man. You’d look hot in it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. Eddie grins at the floor and keeps walking.

Then, they hit: The Wall of Dicks.

No other name for it—just rows and rows of dildos. Neon, glittery, shockingly pink. Others disturbingly realistic, veins and all.

Steve goes still, eyebrows somewhere in his hairline.

Eddie snorts—can’t help it.

If someone had told his fifteen-year-old self that one day he’d be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve Harrington, contemplating a rainbow array of synthetic dicks…

Yeah. That kid would’ve laughed himself into a coma.

Steve snorts quietly from beside him, then keeps on moving.

“Nope. Definitely not.”

Toward the back, things mellow a little. The lighting softens. Shelves are labeled Personal Massagers in soothing cursive—toys in sleek lines and pastels encased in transparent clamshells.

Eddie picks up a box and clears his throat. Drops his voice to baritone, smooth and ridiculous:

“Ten speeds. Dual motors. Couples-tested. Prostate approved.”

Steve snorts. “Prostate approved?”

“Like a dentist,” Eddie shrugs, stone-faced. “Four out of five recommend this one in particular.”

Steve chuckles and leans in to scan the fine print, head tilted, mouth moving silently as he reads. There's a little crease between his brows that Eddie has zero business finding so endearing.

Steve flips the box over, then moves to the next shelf, picking up another toy and squinting at the label. His bottom lip catches between his teeth, and he makes this thoughtful humming noise under his breath that lodges itself squarely in Eddie’s chest.  

He points something out on the packaging—something about battery life, maybe, Eddie doesn’t really hear it—then gives him this half-crooked grin, like they’re comparing crushes instead of, y'know, vibrators.

Eddie nods mutely.

His pulse is doing weird things. His mouth is dry again.

No, he is absolutely fine. Shut up.

Then Steve goes right back to browsing, eyes focused, curious. And just, comfortable in a way Eddie never quite is, even when he's trying his hardest.

His throat feels tight.

His heart’s thudding like it’s pressing up against the back of his teeth. His palms are drenched, and when he shifts, he realizes he’s been leaning in without noticing. Like gravity’s got ideas of its own.

No, he’s fine. He’s fine.

“So,” he says, too loudly, too fast, yanking himself back. “What’re we thinking, Romeo?”

Steve glances at him, then at the shelf. He rubs the back of his neck, expression gone a little soft. “Something simple, right?”

He bends slightly, scanning the lower row. Eddie’s eyes follow without permission. The denim of those too-tight jeans strains across his thighs and—yep, abort. Look away. Look literally anywhere else.

“What about uh…” Steve says, a little hesitant. His fingers turn the box over once, then back. “What about this one?”

It’s small. Lavender. Smooth silicone, soft matte finish with a gentle curve.   

And the look on Steve’s face—focused, a little uncertain, lips pressed together like he’s waiting for approval—hits Eddie straight in the chest.

God, this guy.

If Eddie had a single working brain cell left, he’d say something smooth, something teasing.

Instead, he just stares, gaping like an idiot.

He clears his throat, desperate to push the air back into his lungs.

“Add it to the basket, Loverboy.”

Steve snorts and tosses him a look, bumping shoulders with him before moving past, and Eddie holds on for dear life.

On their way back, Steve lingers near the lube display. Bottles in all sizes, colors, flavors. Eddie makes the mistake of reading one labeled Glazed Donut Fantasy and physically recoils.

Steve notices and grins. “What, not a fan of dessert?”

“Not that kind,” Eddie mutters, ears going pink.

Steve picks up a cherry bottle. Holds it up between two fingers like a fine wine.

“This one’s safe, right?”

Safe. Like this is a normal, logical, harmless thing they’re doing together. Shopping. For lube.

Eddie tries to play it cool. His voice cracks: “Classic. Can’t go wrong.”

Steve nods and drops it into the basket next to the vibe.

That’s two. Two deeply compromising items in a basket that Eddie is now definitely holding more awkwardly than before.

And then—it happens.

Steve turns to look at something on a nearby shelf. Just turns. Stretches a little to reach for a different bottle, and the fabric of his polo shifts just enough to ride up over his hip, and Eddie catches the smallest flash of skin above the waistband of his jeans and—

Okay.

Okay.

He needs something.

A distraction. A shield. A miracle.

He reaches blindly and grabs the first thing within arm’s reach: a wrinkled old issue of Big Racks Quarterly with a glossy blonde on the front wearing nothing but whipped cream.

Steve turns back. Blinks.

“…Really?”

Eddie shrugs, real casual, slipping the magazine upright along the inside of the slotted basket. “What? Research.”

“Uh-huh.”

Eddie does not—will not—explain that he needed something large, preferably eye-catching, and definitely boner-concealing between his hips and the world.

Behind the counter, Flannel Uncle is still buried in his magazine, barely lifting his eyes as they approach. When he does, it’s just a slow nod—like two guys carrying cherry lube and a vibrator and a porn mag is just business as usual.

Which, for him, it probably is.

“Need a bag?”

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. Then, with slightly more dignity: “Please."

Steve stands beside him, hands in his pockets, bumping Eddie’s shoulder lightly as they wait for the total. Easy, casual—like someone who’s never had to hide a thing this obvious. This shameful.  

Eddie doesn’t look at Steve. Can’t.

Just keeps his eyes on Steve's hands, instead, watching him slide crisp twenties across the counter. Follows the clerk’s fingers as he counts the change, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Outside, the heat clings thick and wet, pressing in like the air's trying to suffocate them for their sins. The paper bag under Steve’s arm rustles with every step, loud in the quiet.

And Eddie tries not to dwell on it. On any of it.    

Partly for his dignity, partly for that deeply inconvenient problem growing in his pants, but mostly because… he can’t afford to.

Can’t afford to lean into it.

To mistake kindness for anything else.

Can't let himself think that he can, because hope is the thing that’ll burn right through, scorch him clean to the bone.  

Like how, just before they left, the cashier winked and said, ‘Y’all have fun,’ and Steve didn’t laugh. Didn’t try to correct him, didn’t even blink. Just thanked him and moved on, and that scraped something raw and stupid in Eddie’s chest.

Or how, outside, Steve bumped his shoulder again—easy, playful—and Eddie had to light a cigarette just to keep his hands from reaching back.

Or how, once they were back in the van, windows rolled down, Eddie made some half-assed joke just to kill the silence, and Steve laughed.

A real laugh. Thrown-back-head, sun-in-his-teeth laugh.

And Eddie didn’t know what to do with the sound of it stuck in his ribs.

Didn’t know where to put it except somewhere deep where he knows it’ll bruise.

It all gets buried in the same place, eventually. Like when they ended up shoulder to shoulder at some greasy drive-through after, sharing fries from the same bag, and Steve didn’t flinch when Eddie accidentally handed him the milkshake by the straw instead of the cup—fingers sticky, too slow to let go. Just leaned in, drank deep, then made a face and declared his was better.

Like none of this shit was weird.

Normal.

And maybe it is. Maybe to Steve, it’s just another night.

Another friend. Another milkshake.

But to Eddie?

It’s a little too warm in his chest.

A little too close to something he’s not supposed to want.

So he focuses on the road, instead.

White-knuckling the greasy steering wheel, mind locked dead-ahead.

On the glow of streetlights blurring through the bug-splattered windshield. On the static-laced hum of the song on the radio, something low and clean and feel-good.

Steve probably knows it by heart.

Eddie doesn’t care for it. Never has. Steve’s humming again—under his breath, off-key.

And Eddie keeps driving.

Tries not to turn and watch.

To let that warmth sink in too deep.

But damn if his eyes don’t keep drifting anyway.

a/n: and what started as an absolutely debauched steddie x reader idea has turned into, well... this. i hope you enjoyed. lmk ur thoughts! ur lovely comments and reblogs keep me going :)))

also, lmk if you'd want to be included on a taglist!

my masterlist

[that-damn-virgo]

love in a box, @that-damn-virgo

[aurynsia]

Unrequited, Terrifying Chapter 4

James Potter x Reader

Summary: While studying with the Marauders, you realise you misjudged them, rekindling feelings for your primary suspect…

Warnings: Extremely fluffy, nervous!james x shy!reader, some subtle wolfstar action in the background, idiots in love, oc!friends, lovesick!james, no use of Y/N, reader is referred to with she/her pronouns, swearing, all fluff with a side of plot, intense pining and I mean INTENSE, James starts off scared of you but quickly learns to be openly in love, NOT EDITED!

Word count: 1.7K

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Slipping through the aisles of shelves lined with books of spells and history, you made your way towards the tables and chairs scattered in the middle of the room. The furthest table was occupied by the four boys you were in search of: the Marauders.

Approaching the Gryffindor boys, you noticed the quiet passing of paper between Remus and James, both scribbling small notes in a hurried manner. “Ehem- hello…” you spoke softly once you were within hearing range. Four pairs of eyes shot up to meet yours, each looking more afraid of your presence than the last.

Remus graced you with a bright smile, mouthing “hey” in reply. Across from him sat Sirius, who wore a look of surprise that quickly shifted into a lopsided smirk, nodding in greeting. Peter was startled by your presence but showed no sign of genuine fright, unlike James.

The head boy sat at the end of the table, breath hitching when you spoke with eyes blown wide.

They had saved you a seat between James and Remus, which you promptly moved to, busying yourself to shift the attention off of you. You placed your material on the table, pulling out your notebook.

You were suddenly very aware of your surroundings, shifting uncomfortably in your seat and glancing at the boy next to you, meeting his gaze before turning red and glancing back down.

Remus caught your attention, calling your name and gesturing to the book he had placed in front of you. “I thought we could revise the content in chapter four and quiz each other,” he said.

You and Remus were thirty minutes into your study session, writing with intention as you took pages of organised notes in dark ink before Sirius struck up a conversation.

“Your handwriting is very pretty,” he looked at you with a grin, “Prongs, look how neat her handwriting is!” After a beat, James shifted to look over your notes and gave a shy smile.

“Oh, Godric, he’s right…” he spoke softly, looking intently as he admired your penmanship like an artwork in the Louvre. His look of curiosity shifted when he met your gaze, gulping as he pushed back into his seat with rose cheeks. Your face was burning too.

“Thank you…” you stuttered out. Sirius was watching the interaction with a snarky grin plastered across his face, ready to push James’ buttons some more.

“I only bring it up because James has awful handwriting,” he stated, “See? It’s practically sprawled all over the place!” You glanced at the boy’s scattered writing, letters not quite aligning with each other across the page. You giggled, mustering a sense of courage as you sunk into comfortable banter with the group. “Well, whatever he’s doing with his writing seems to work, James always gets great marks in class!”

Sirius smirked at your praise, eyebrows raised and laced with visual sarcasm, as if to say “bold move, sweetheart”. You found the table of boys to actually be very easy to talk to. You glanced at James’ direction once more, admiring the bashful grin he showed you in thanks.

Your eyes met his writing again, noticing the boyish quality with which he wrote. It felt familiar, like you’d seen the print before. You took this as a sign that your feelings for the boy must have never really died after all, finding so much blissful comfort in his presence.

Remus reluctantly interrupted the moment again, realising he should at least act like studying was the only reason he invited you here. “Right, think you can handle a quick quiz now, love? Test that big brain of yours?” You closed your books and met his eyes, harvesting a glint of confidence in your own. “Bring it on.”

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

“I invited her to study.”

“What?”

“We’re in the same class for History of Magic, she’s very good you know.”

“You mean, she’s coming here? Now?”

“Who did you think the empty seat was saved for?”

James’ eyes flashed emotion after emotion, from hope to excitement to nervousness, before finally settling on fear. The note traveling back and forth between Remus’ pen and his own was losing space, and he began to flip it over in order to scrawl a series of exclamations and offensive names directed at his friend.

The soft call of a greeting from your position standing by the table made him pause his actions, his heart plummeting into his stomach and swimming aimlessly. He backed further into his chair, praying to Merlin that he could merge with the wood and disappear.

When his prayers weren’t answered, his eyes flickered to the boy who caused this encounter to happen, cursing him with his gaze.

You had settled into your designated chair, so close that he could smell the intoxicating perfume you had deliberately sprayed this morning. His lips parted at the scent, imagining you would smell even sweeter with his nose buried in your neck, unruly curls being massaged by your soft touch, waist encapsulated in his grasp.

Your eyes met his, catching him explicitly staring at you through lidded eyes. Your quick reaction to turn away pulled him out of his trance, beginning to focus on his work once more.

James’ writing manifested as a mess of nerves and lovestruck adoration. He continued to steal quick glances at your pretty face, wise eyes, soft lips, delicate skin and sweet hair that framed your face in such a perfect way under the library lights.

He mentally blessed the table for obscuring his vision of your enticing legs and providing a physical barrier between himself and your warmth, otherwise he might just curl up at your side and drift off to sleep in the comfort you emitted.

Sirius’ utterance of “Prongs” brought his attention back to the group as he explained that your handwriting was pretty and James should look at it. When are you ever not pretty? Merlin, he was whipped.

James shifted to look over your notes, the links and chains between each letter more mesmerising than the last. “Oh, Godric, he’s right…” he whispered, still staring at the perfection on the page. You were perfect.

Your small thank you sounded flustered, calming him in the knowledge that there was a chance he could make you feel the same way he did, buzzing and warm in your presence.

Sirius continued teasing the boy, motioning for you to look at his awful handwriting. James let out a silent laugh at the sudden attention, though it manifested as more of an infatuated sigh as you curiously peered at his notes.

You turned to face Sirius again, before nonchalantly glancing back at James and smiling as you said his writing gets great marks in class nonetheless.

James was grinning ear to ear with a smile that could blind a crowd of angels, cheeks pigmented with a red glow and eyes squinting from pure joy. He wanted nothing more than to bask in the warmth of your quick wit and charming softness.

When the Marauders arrived back at their dorm that night, James rushed to his desk to spill his feelings onto a page. He quickly folded the note into another baby blue envelope, running over to the girls’ dorms and slipping the note below your door.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

The night was quiet, a soft breeze flowing through your open window. Your friends were tucked in and sleeping soundly as you gave into temptation and reread the messages you had received so far.

A subtle sound of commotion from your door stole your attention from the notes as yet another one appeared at its base, baby blue and addictive.

You scrambled to your feet, scooped up the message and jumped back into bed.

Throwing open the envelope marked with your name, you began to read its contents with a lovestruck haze to your vision.

“I long for you. You’ll never understand the sheer desperation you spark within me with every breath you take. My heart feels ripped out of my chest and locked away by your subtle glances, your bright smile, your shy demeanour. I want nothing more than to exist in the shelter of your love, capturing the sickeningly sweet tune of your voice in my long term memory to keep me sane. To keep me alive.” The note continued on the other side of the paper, which you flipped.

“I’ve been blessed with a proximity to you recently that can only be described as intoxicating. I breathe your attention. It fuels me to act a little more confident every time I see you, for all that you allow me gives me strength in my lovestruck prison, whispering sweet nothings to me in my dreams at the dead of night. Speaking of dreams, it seems the grasp your minor affection has on my attention forces me into a state of sleep paralysis, and I’m starting to think the only cure is your lips on mine and your presence in my lonely bed. If you haven’t realised who I am already, my love, time will tell. I’m so fucking obsessed with you, it’s unmissable. Forever yours.”

You gasped at the pure desperation demonstrated in the new addition to your growing pile of love letters. This boy was smitten, and you were finally beginning to accept the fact that you wished it was the first boy you had ever loved. You had tried to stay neutral about the situation, open to all who demonstrated such infatuation with you, but you prayed to Merlin that this boy was the one you wanted in return, one James Potter.

Sick with affection and drunk on love, you placed the note on top of the others as you began to sink into a deep slumber. Tomorrow you would return to the library with the Marauders, and you would do everything in your power to decipher if James really was who you wished he was.

The note flickered under the weight of the pressing autumn breeze, rustling the pages of uneven text once controlled by a messy hand.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

A/N: AHH I meant to wait to upload this one but I couldn’t help it so I rushed to finish it! The dynamic between these two is addictive to write about and I’m ashamed to say I’m flustered over my own writing ;-; As always, reblogs and likes are appreciated and comment if you want to be added to the tag list for chapter 5! <3

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Tag List:

@1-queenofpotatoes-1

@caspiankingofnarnia

@thesuitelifeofafangirl

@moonydoodlez

@fionnalopez

@kawaiiarbitervoid

@kc2sstuff

[lveisagi]

“ MY HEART’S TOO LOUD ”

SATORU GOJO x reader

CW : yandere themes, emotional dependency, possessiveness, obsessive behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamics, manipulation, implied stalking

SYNOPSIS : satoru loves you too much. obsessively, desperately, overwhelmingly. and he’s terrified you’ll leave.

WC : 1.2k

he’s constantly thinking about you, his mind racing with every little detail you’ve shared—your favorite books, your laugh, how you wrinkle your nose when you’re thinking hard. these thoughts keep him up at night, obsessively scribbling them into notebooks no one ever sees.

satoru’s obsessed with understanding you—your moods, your fears, your hopes. but instead of just asking, he tries to “figure you out” like a puzzle, quietly pining as he studies your expressions from afar, wishing you’d notice him just as much.

every time you’re distant or distracted, he spirals inward, muttering to himself about “losing the hypothesis of us.” he can’t bear the thought that maybe, just maybe, you might stop loving him.

he’s terrified to tell you how much he needs you, afraid it’ll push you away. so he masks his yearning behind awkward jokes or nerdy comments, but the cracks in his facade show when his voice falters or his hands tremble.

satoru keeps a stash of little gifts—books you mentioned wanting, or weird trinkets from his research—but he’s too scared to give them to you directly. instead, he leaves them in places where you’ll find them, hoping you’ll understand the silent confession.

when you laugh with someone else, his jealousy isn’t loud or angry—it’s quiet, painfully lonely. he finds himself comparing himself to them, hating that they get to share moments he can only dream about.

you sleep over one night and when he thinks you’re asleep, he whispers your name, almost like a prayer, a desperate hope that you won’t forget him in the storm of your life.

when he finally confesses his feelings, it’s a messy, trembling admission—he’s not proud of how much he yearns for you, but he can’t keep it inside any longer. it’s both heartbreaking and painfully sincere.

his texts start sweet and hopeful, then gradually unravel into desperate pleas—“please don’t leave me,” “i’m nothing without you,” “you’re the only constant in my chaos”—and then he hides his phone, ashamed of his own obsession.

his love is a tangled web of obsession, hope, fear, and devotion. he’s begging you not just to stay, but to see him—the real, broken, yearning satoru beneath the blinding smile and cool exterior.

after confessing, satoru’s usual playful confidence softens into something more tender but also clingy. he checks on you obsessively—texts, calls, little “just thinking about you” messages—because now that he’s laid his feelings bare, the fear of losing you feels even more immediate. he wants constant reassurance that you’re still there, still his.

he’s still the goofball, but the teasing has a new edge—sometimes it’s his way of masking how overwhelmed he feels inside. if you try to pull away, even briefly, his tone might turn desperate or pleading, making it clear that his heart is tangled up in yours in a way that’s hard to shake.

satoru can’t stand the idea of you being alone, so he shows up unannounced sometimes, bringing your favorite snacks or a dumb movie, just to make sure you’re okay. he’s slightly pathetic in these moments, fumbling over his words when he’s worried, but you can see the genuine love behind it all.

he obsessively remembers little things you say—your favorite flower, a song stuck in your head—and uses them to surprise you, trying to prove he’s paying attention, that you matter. it’s both endearing and overwhelming, but it’s how he tries to hold onto you.

at night, he’s restless, sometimes whispering your name when he thinks you’re asleep, caught between hope and anxiety. if you comfort him, he finally lets some of that tension go, clinging to you like a lifeline.

his protectiveness spikes—he’s intensely watchful whenever you’re near anyone else, but instead of lashing out, he becomes quietly possessive, subtle but unmistakable.

when you talk to someone else, even casually, a cold shadow flickers across his expression, barely hidden behind his usual grin.

he might joke at first—snarky comments like, “oh, you having fun over there? don’t forget who owns your time,” but there’s a sharpness beneath it, a warning you can’t quite ignore.

his eyes follow you closely, calculating. if he catches you laughing or sharing a moment with someone else, his smile tightens, and his voice lowers. “they don’t deserve you. only i get to see that side of you.”

satoru’s clinginess becomes more intense, borderline suffocating. he’s constantly needing to be near you, “accidentally” appearing whenever you meet other people, his presence looming like a shadow that’s hard to shake.

when you’re on the phone or texting someone else, he gets restless and tense, sometimes snatching your phone away with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “let me see who’s so important.”

if you push back or try to set boundaries, he becomes eerily calm—almost sinister. his tone drops to a quiet, dangerous whisper: “don’t make me prove how far i’ll go to keep you.”

he starts keeping tabs—subtle but invasive. knowing your schedule, who you talk to, even the times you try to have space. it’s his way of holding the world at bay so no one else can take you from him.

his teasing becomes laced with possessiveness. “you belong with me,” he murmurs, fingers tracing your wrist with a pressure that’s equal parts comforting and controlling.

despite the darkness creeping in, there’s still that desperate yearning beneath it all—the terrified hope that you’ll stay, that you won’t leave him alone in his obsession.

 satoru becomes almost unbearable when you talk to anyone else. if you so much as glance at another person, he’s instantly sulking or whining, like a kid who’s been caught losing his favorite toy.

“hey, what was that?” he pouts, voice dragging out the words like it’s the worst crime imaginable. “you smiled at him? seriously? i’m right here, you know.”

he clings to you like a barnacle, wrapping his arm around your waist or grabbing your hand and refusing to let go. “don’t go anywhere,” he whines softly, eyes wide and pleading, “please? i get scared, okay? what if you forget me?”

he’s constantly texting you when you’re apart—bombarding your phone with messages like, “who are you with? are you thinking about me? don’t leave me alone!” and then immediately sending a follow-up: “sorry, i’m just… i love you too much.”

when you hang out with friends, he tags along uninvited, pretending it’s casual but really watching your every move with this awkward, clingy intensity. if you’re laughing or talking without him, he pouts and mutters, “that should be me.”

he gets whiny over the smallest things, like you not answering his calls right away or taking too long to reply. “are you ignoring me?” he asks, voice breaking a little. “you’re not mad, are you? please don’t be mad.”

even when he’s being annoying, there’s this pathetic, desperate neediness that makes you want to soothe him, but sometimes it’s exhausting.

he tries to mask his jealousy with jokes, but they come out bitter and clingy: “guess i’ll have to up my game, huh? no one else better try to steal you.”

at night, he gets extra needy—dragging you close and burying his face in your neck, whispering, “don’t leave me. you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

and when you finally tell him he’s being a little much, he gets all pouty and defensive, like a sulky kid, “but i can’t help it! you’re mine, and i’m scared you’ll leave me for someone better.”

beneath all that whiny, clingy, annoying behavior is a scared, fragile guy who’s terrified of losing you and just doesn’t know how to handle it gracefully.

⁠@ lveisagi, please do not copy, translate, or repost my work. all rights reserved.

[its-the-allure]

"Season"

For @merthurmicrofic weekly prompt "season" | 200 words

And as the years pass, they fall into a comfortable, companionable friendship the likes of which Merlin has never experienced with another person.  And in every season, Merlin falls a little bit more in love with Arthur.  In the springtime—bursting with fragrant bloom, and birdsong—Merlin loves Arthur's quick wit; the hours of shared laughter and mutual ribbing—his cheeks aching, smiling in too-wide delight. In the summer—long days together under cloudless blue skies—Merlin loves how Arthur's hair falls golden as the fields of barley upon his princely brow. In autumn—trees shedding their jewel-bright leaves to carpet the damp forest floor—Merlin loves Arthur's sense of justice, his steadfast willingness to always do what is right. And in the winter—early evenings in, over-warm by the crackling fire—Merlin loves the strength of Arthur's hand on his shoulder, clasping firmly as he bids him goodnight. In every season, Merlin loves Arthur; will likely love him for the rest of his days.  But he tucks it away, holding it close to his breast along with his other terrible secret. And longs for a future where both can be known by the man who has captured his heart.

Thanks for the beta help @thesongistheriver and @aemelia

[svynie]

The Year the Wind Changed

Chapter 1: April 10 — The Wind Returns to Room 4-A

5YN0PSIS: Kaedehara Kazuha only wanted a quiet final year—one more cycle through spring and sakura. But the wind has never been one to leave him be. Within the first hour of the new school year, he’s been roped into class president, and seated beside someone he’s spent the last two years quietly trying not to think about. Maybe the universe is trying to tell him something—or maybe Heizou is just really annoying. Either way, silence is no longer an option.

TAGS: KAZUHA X READER... not yet, SLOW BURNN, modern au, high school setting in Inazuma, use of Y/N, gender-neutral pronouns, unrequited love/pining (for now), beidou as an adoptive parent wooo!!

W.C: 4,690

A/N: hi !! i was originally going to keep the teacher’s old name, but during my hiatus, i helped a friend with their oc lore. and since they also helped proofread most of the chapters, I changed the name as a small nod to aforementioned oc! i’ll be remaking the taglist... but the names tagged at the end are from the old taglist that have interacted or commented on the announcement post about the rewrite. let me know if you’d like to be tagged!

The morning sun filtered weakly through sheer curtains, spilling across a simple room in a quiet seaside neighborhood of Inazuma. The shadows it cast moved slowly, reluctantly, as though even the daylight was hesitant to interrupt the stillness of the hour.

Its sole occupant sat cross-legged on his futon, a worn notebook balanced on one knee, and a pencil resting against his nose. The pages were clean, the graphite dull. Unused.

Kaedehara Kazuha had been awake long before the sun began its slow climb. Not out of nervousness—he told himself—but because the wind had been unusually restless that dawn. It had pressed against his window in gentle but persistent gust as though trying to rouse him. 

Fourth year. Final year.

He stared at the page as if waiting for it to move first. As if the paper might blink or speak before he had to.

From the other side of the house came the low clinking of dishes, the rhythmic chop of a knife, and the subtle hum of the morning news on television

Beidou was awake, of course. 

She always was—long before the harbor stirred, before the ships rose and fell with the tide. The scent of grilled fish and warm miso wafted through the paper-thin walls, grounding him in the present.

Kazuha exhaled softly. Closing the notebook and sliding it into his bag.

When he stepped out, Beidou glanced over her shoulder without missing a beat. She stood at the stove in a loose tank top and well-worn slacks, chopsticks in one hand, a chipped mug of coffee in the other. Her hair, as wild as always, was tied in a halfhearted bun.

“You’re up early,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

"I couldn’t sleep," he admitted.

She gave him a knowing glance. , then gestured with her chin. "First day of your last year, huh?"

 He nodded. "That it is." 

"You’ve grown," she said casually, flipping the fish with practiced ease. “Back in second year, I used to have to threaten you with cold rice just to get you out of bed.”

 He chuckled under his breath. "The wind was loud this morning."

 “So it was.” She paused, the words lingering for a moment like steam above miso. “Usually means something’s about to change.”

 She slid the breakfast tray across the low table—grilled fish, miso soup, a small bowl of pickled radish.  “You sure you’re ready for today?”

 Kazuha paused as he lowered himself to the table. “As ready as I’ll ever be.

 Beidou leaned against the doorway, arms crossing over her chest. Her expression softened just slightly—just enough.

 “You’re not the kind of kid who cares about popularity or titles,” she said. “Don’t start now. Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”

 He nodded, though something in his chest stirred restlessly. “I’m not worried,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if it was true.

 “Sure,” she said easily. “But even if you were—it’s fine. Things are supposed to feel different this year. That’s what change is.”

She sipped from her coffee, then added with a wry smile, “Just don’t let the wind carry you off before you’ve had your say. Sometimes, you have to walk into it.”

 Kazuha looked up at her, quiet admiration in his eyes. He nodded. “I’ll try.”

 Breakfast passed in comfortable silence. No music, no rush. Just the soft clink of chopsticks and the whisper of steam rising from miso. It was a peace he’d learned to treasure—a quiet that allowed his thoughts to breathe.

 As he slid on his bag and stepped toward the door, Beidou called after him. "Hey."

 He turned.

 She tilted her head. "Whatever today throws at you—keep your feet steady. And if you can’t? Come home. The harbor’s not going anywhere."

 Kazuha nodded. "Thanks mom.”

 And with that, he stepped into the crisp April morning. ⋆ ·−· ·−· ·−· ·−· ⋆

The walk to school was quiet, save for the occasional rustling of sakura branches lining the residential streets while merchants opened their stalls and mothers ushered their children along.

Inazuma High School sat nestled on a sloping hill, its indigo gates weathered but dignified, watching over the shrine and harbor below.

Kazuha slowed as he approached, shifting the weight of his bag. Around the entrance, clusters of students buzzed with conversation, their voices overlapping—new classes, new clubs, new hopes.

 He offered a polite nod to a passing underclassman, slipping through the crowd toward the bulletin board by the gates. Class lists were already drawing a small gathering.

 Class 4-A.

 He scanned for his name, fingers ghosting near the page. 

Kaedehara Kazuha — 4-A.

There it was. Familiar. Steady.

Then, a voice broke the quiet behind him—carefree, teasing.

"Checking if you still exist again this year?"

Kazuha turned slightly, already knowing the speaker. Shikanoin Heizou stood just a pace behind him, shirt half-tucked, blazer slung over one shoulder, a single earbud dangling from his collar.. His hair was tousled in a way that always looked deliberate.

Kazuha regarded him with a long-suffering look. “And here I was hoping you’d matured.”

“I did,” Heizou replied smoothly, stepping beside him. “That’s why I’m early. Also because I want first dibs on back row seating.”

He leaned in, scanning the sheet beside him. Kazuha caught the faint scent of orange peel gum and over-sharpened pencil lead—both hallmarks of Heizou’s morning routine.

“Let’s see...  Kokomi, Ayaka, Kirara—Yoimiya’s in 4-C—dang,” Heizou muttered. “There goes my entertainment.... guess we have to meet up during lunch time”

Kazuha’s brows knit faintly. He hadn’t expected that either.

“Wait—Thoma’s here?” Heizou blinked, leaning closer. “Didn’t think he’d get shuffled into our class. Good surprise, I guess...”

Kazuha gave a quiet hum of agreement. His thoughts were half with the list and half with the strange quiet knot in his chest—something stirring just beneath the ribs.

“Ah, and here we go,” Heizou said, tapping a name with mock ceremony. “Kaedehara Kazuha. Dead center!"

“You read my name last,” Kazuha murmured.

“Saved the best for last.” Heizou offered an innocent grin. “You know who’s also here? Y/N.”

A pause. Subtle, but sharp.

Kazuha stilled.

The name was there—printed just a few lines above his. Unassuming. Neat.

Something in him coiled tighter, then loosened again all at once.

“Relax,” Heizou said, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve been pretending you’re not interested since second year. Isn’t this, like, fate giving you a nudge?”

"I don’t believe in fate."

“Yeah, yeah. But you do believe in poetry, which is just fate that rhymes.”

Kazuha said nothing. Instead, he stepped forward and into the school building, the echo of student chatter trailing behind them like fading footprints.

Heizou followed, slinging his bag lazily over the chair in the back row. "Bet you ten mora you end up class president."

Kazuha arched a brow. "Why would anyone nominate me?"

"Mystery. Soft voice. Artistic. Quiet, Handsome. The usual."

"That’s not how class elections work."

Heizou winked. "Just watch me."

Kazuha sighed. "I’m going to regret showing up early, aren’t I?"

"Absolutely." ⋆ ·−· ·−· ·−· ·−· ⋆

They made their way down the hallway, the buzz of returning students ebbing as they approached Room 4-A. It sat near the end of the hallway, morning sun pooling through its windows in soft, slanted beams. The door was propped open, and a few early arrivals were already milling inside,

Near the front stood Kamisato Ayaka, pristine as ever. Her blue ribbon matched the faint frost in her gaze, but her smile warmed when she noticed them.

“Good morning, Kaedehara, Shikanoin.” She greeted, folding her hands neatly.

"Morning, Ayaka," Heizou greeted with casual ease. "Still as composed as always."

She smiled politely. “It’s only natural to begin the year prepared. And you? Early for once. A shift in planetary alignment?”

Heizou dramatically clutched his chest. "She wounds me. I was here out of pure responsibility."

Kazuha gave Heizou a sidelong glance, then nodded politely. "You seem well, Kamisato."

“Thank you.” Her gaze softened. “I trust you both will continue setting the tone for the class—as usual.”

Heizou leaned over and whispered, “She says that like we’re not ticking time bombs”

Kazuha arched his brow. “Just speak for yourself....”

“I always do.”

They turned to the seating chart near the board. Unlike previous years, there was no blank grid. The chart was already filled out, names neatly typed and mapped.

Ayaka glanced over at the two boys, she offered a small smile, brushing invisible dust from her uniform sleeves. "It seems they’ve already decided our seats," she said lightly. "Rather unusual for the first day."

Heizou peered over his shoulder. "Huh. Assigned seating this early? Bold move."

"I imagine they want to establish order quickly this year," Ayaka murmured.

Heizou smirked. "You say that like they know this class won’t spiral into chaos anyway."

Kazuha shook his head, amused. "At least the sunlight’s better here than in 3-B." Then he scanned for his name—second row, seat C. Near the window.

As always.

He couldn’t help but let his gaze drift to the name beside his. B.

Y/N.

He stared for half a second too long.

Heizou noticed. Of course he did.

He leaned in, scanning where Kazuha’s eyes had landed. “Well, well. What’d I say earlier? Fate’s giving you more than a nudge—it’s shoving you into direct line of sight.”

Kazuha offered no response.

Ayaka, still nearby, glancing between the two. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Kazuha said quickly, too quickly.

Ayaka tilted her head slightly, her lips curling in a subtle, knowing smile. Her gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary before she turned her attention back to the seating chart

Kazuha then moved toward his desk, placing his bag down with quiet precision. The desk still had the faint pencil ghost marks of last year’s occupant—tiny scribbles in the corner, an etched doodle smoothed over by wear. Kazuha ran his thumb across the edge once before taking his seat.

The window overlooked the sakura path that wound behind the library—a quiet spot where only a few students ventured during lunch. It would be good for writing.

Still… his thoughts wandered.

He opened his notebook again. Not to write, at first, but to look. The page held a single haiku:

April stirs again— Desks rearranged like old thoughts, And one smile returns.

He’d written it while the sky outside was still silver. Half-asleep. But now, the weight of it sat more heavily. As if his hand had known before his mind did.

Heizou whistled low beside him. “I’d say you’re doomed, but honestly? This might finally be your chance.”

Kazuha again... didn’t reply but the tips of his ears turned a shade darker. He kept his eyes forward, notebook closed on his desk, though his hands rested over it a second too long.

Heizou grinned, “Not denying it, huh?”

Still, Kazuha said nothing

But the blush didn’t fade…

Soon, the classroom shifted—noise spilling in from the hallway, voices growing louder as students arrived.

And then—

“Oh! New seats today?”

The voice cut through everything. The kind of voice that always seemed to wear a smile, even in silence.

Kazuha’s head turned before he realized it had moved

There, in the doorway, stood Y/N.

One hand clutched the strap of their school bag, the other balancing a small potted plant wrapped in a cloth sleeve. Strands of hair clung gently to their cheek where the wind had mussed it.

The noise in the room briefly shifted—acknowledging them with a few waves, quiet greetings. Kazuha remained silent, eyes tracking the subtle way they smiled back at each classmate—gentle, not showy, like someone used to easing into rooms instead of owning them.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until they started to move.

Y/N crossed toward the middle rows, pausing beside a girl from their old class—Sayo, maybe… They exchanged a few quiet words, then settled together into a desk near the back corner.

Kazuha blinked.

That wasn’t quite right.

Their seat was clearly marked on the chart—second row, directly beside his. Yet here they were, slipping into a spot three rows behind.

Maybe… they just hadn’t checked yet. Maybe they were giving someone else a moment. Maybe it was easier to melt into the back and avoid attention.

All perfectly reasonable

But still...

The empty desk beside him felt unusually noticeable. Not in a loud way—just enough to make the space feel… unbalanced.

He looked down, flipping  a page in his notebook. His pen hovered above the paper, then stilled.

 The sunlight was soft. The air, clear... sure, but to his right, there was an absence where something—someone—was meant to be.

 And for a brief second, the space seemed to linger longer than it should

Then, from behind, he heard Kokomi's voice—something about the plant.  “…You brought a plant to school again?” she asked gently, tilting her head just a little. “Is there a reason?”

“Kokomi!” Y/N said brightly, “he was just getting lonely at home..."

“He?” Kokomi looked up from her planner.

“The plant! His name is Maple!”

Kazuha blinked.

Maple? That was the name…?

He glanced towards the desk again. The plant’s glossy leaves caught the light—small and round…not at all like the pointed edges of an actual maple leaf.  It didn’t match the name in the slightest.

Perhaps it was deliberate.

The thoughts tugged at him. There had to be a reason, right? 

Maybe it was the color the leaves would turn one day. Or a memory. A feeling. Even a person… 

But before that thought could settle, a voice broke through.

“Ah there it is!” Heizou said, sharp with amusement “You’re staring again.”

Kazuha startled slightly, he didn’t even look up.  “I am not.”

“You are..” Heizou replied,  “You always tilt your head slightly when you do it. It's your ‘admiring from afar’ angle.”

“I don’t have an angle.”

“You have, like... five. And they all involve pretending you’re writing haiku when you’re actually just thinking about them,"

Kazuha sighed softly through his nose. “Do you not have anything better to do?”

“Nope!” Heizou replied cheerfully, chin propped on one hand. “This is honestly fun to watch. Watching you pretend not to care while very obviously caring.”

Kazuha shook his head, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him—just barely tugging upwards.

Heizou immediately caught it. “Seeeee? You’re even smiling!” “Don’t you have someone else to bother?” Kazuha murmured, flipping a page in his notebook to deflect.

“Eventually.” Heizou said, leaning back. “But right now, you’re much more interesting to bother”

Kazuha didn’t dignify that response—though his pencil tapped once, twice… as if trying to ground him through the lingering warmth.

Then suddenly, the classroom door slid open again with a soft thud, and quiet conversation faded almost immediately. A tall woman with ink-black hair tied into a high tail stepped inside, a folder tucked beneath her arm. She wore a navy blouse and dark gray slacks—formal, but not intimidating. "Good morning, everyone," she said calmly. "I’m Sumeragi Reina, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher this year. I also handle world literature electives.”

There was something about the way she spoke that silenced the room—not because she demanded it, but because she simply assumed it would be given.

She flipped open the folder, gaze gliding over the list. “We’ll begin with attendance. Then we’ll move into class officer nominations.”

The familiar rhythm of names called and answered unfolded: a mix of sleepy acknowledgments, enthusiastic “here!”s, and the occasional awkward silence before a hand shot up.

Then—

“Arataki Itto-”

“YO!” The booming voice rang from the hallway. A second later, a tall figure skidded into view, backpack half-zipped and hair unmistakable. 

“Present and lookin’ fabulous!” Itto declared, striking a pose like he’d just stepped onto the red carpet instead of almost tumbling inside the classroom.

Kazuha chuckled as several students flinched, a few even instinctively covered their ears.

Sumeragi-sensei raised an eyebrow. “…Thank you, Arataki. Take your seat.”

Once the last name was checked off, she stepped toward the whiteboard, uncapping a black marker. Class 4-A Officer Elections

The words went up in smooth strokes.

“As you know,” Reina began, “each class selects a president, vice president, secretary, treasurer, and committee representatives. You may nominate yourself or a classmate. Let’s begin with President.”

Silence fell, thick and awkward.

A cough. A shuffle. Someone's chair creaked.

And then, without hesitation—

"Kaedehara," Heizou said, without missing a beat. "I nominate Kaedehara Kazuha."

The air shifted.

Conversations faltered. A chair scraped. Several heads turned.

Kazuha stilled.

His pencil, poised mid-stroke, lowered by a fraction. Slowly, he turned his head toward Heizou, eyes narrowing in a measured, startled disbelief.

"Heizou," he said quietly. "You—"

Heizou didn’t even bother hiding the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back in his seat with all the smug satisfaction of someone who’d just lobbed a pebble into still water, knowing exactly how far the ripples would reach.

Sumeragi-sensei, unbothered, glanced up from her clipboard. “Kaedehara Kazuha. Do you accept the nomination?”

Kazuha blinked once. Then again.

His fingers tightened imperceptibly around his pencil. The wooden body shifted against his knuckles.

"I—I'd prefer to decline," he said, voice even but low. "I don’t believe I’m suited for—"

“Seconded!” The rest of the sentence didn’t land. Itto’s voice boomed from the back, cutting clean through the hum of the room.

Kazuha’s shoulders tensed.

He turned slightly, just enough to see Itto’s broad grin and enthusiastic wave. Like this was some friendly joke. Like the attention wouldn’t settle too sharply on Kazuha’s back.

"Thirded!" Thoma added from across the room, a sheepish shrug already forming as their eyes met. His smile was almost apologetic.

Kazuha opened his mouth to protest.

And then—

He glanced towards the back

Y/N sat turned slightly in their seat, hand half-raised, amusement dancing behind their eyes. A tiny smile—lopsided, warm—played on their lips.

There was a ripple of laughter. A few students clapped just for the fun of it.

Something cold and fluttering tugged at his chest, like a leaf caught in an updraft.

He looked away, breath tight.

"Nominations can’t be withdrawn once seconded," Sumeragi-sensei said, unfazed, writing his name on the board with a neat underline.

Kazuha blinked... "...Is that actually a rule?"

"It is now," she replied, still writing.

Another ripple of laughter. Scattered applause. A few whistles from the back.

Kazuha’s eyes flicked back to Heizou.

That same grin.

Heizou raised both hands like a man claiming innocence.

Kazuha didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The flat line of his mouth said enough.

And yet, he straightened slightly in his seat. Shoulders drawing back. Hands folding loosely over his notebook.

The breeze had shifted.

And ready or not, he was moving with it.

The class laughed. A few clapped. Someone whispered, “Well, that’s new,” and someone else replied, “He kinda gives off that calm leader vibe.”

Kazuha sat very still. The sound blurred at the edges—distant, like wind outside a window. His pulse had shifted, now echoing faintly behind his ears, beneath his skin, in the places still untouched by calm.

Heizou slid into the seat behind him then leaned in, voice low and far too satisfied. “You’re welcome.”

Kazuha didn’t look at him right away. He exhaled through his nose, straightening in his seat, as if steadying himself against an incoming gust.

“You’re a menace,” he said, voice even.

“And you,” Heizou said, grin wide, “are class president.”

Kazuha turned his head, meeting his gaze at last. “You ambushed me.”

Heizou shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “I gave you a push!”

“There’s a difference.”

“You needed it.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“No one ever asks for greatness,” Heizou said, mock-wise. “Sometimes it’s just... thrust upon them by meddling best friends.”

Kazuha sighed again, gaze drifting briefly to the window. The sakura branches stirred outside, the same way his thoughts did now—slow, reluctant, and unrooted.

“So this is happening,” he murmured. “Whether I want it or not.”

“That’s how all good stories start,” Heizou said, folding his hands behind his head.

Kazuha glanced back down at his notebook, the page still open from earlier. He tapped the corner lightly, then closed it.

“And just like that,” he said softly, “I’m running.”

Heizou grinned. “Told you. Fate.”

Kazuha once again, didn’t respond.

But his hand lingered on the closed cover of his notebook, as if somewhere deep in the unwritten pages, waiting for what’s to come next.

But… no one else had volunteered. No one had even been nominated.

A few classmates shifted in their seats, clearly unwilling to raise their hands for the spotlight. Some had glanced Kazuha’s way, as if expecting him to somehow naturally shoulder the role.

A few students had murmured to each other, half-turning as if considering—but ultimately, every glance circled back to him. Quiet. Capable. The kind of person people trusted to keep things steady.

And maybe that was all it took.

By the time Reina asked again, the silence had stretched too long. His name, still fresh on the board, went unchallenged.

So when she finally declared, “Class President: Kaedehara Kazuha,” the room didn’t react with surprise. Just a few nods, scattered claps, and the unspoken relief that someone else had already filled the silence.

Heizou gave him a dramatic bow, one hand pressed theatrically over his chest.

Kazuha exhaled softly, hand lifting to rub at the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his collar. The corner of his mouth tugged upward—barely a smile, more an acknowledgment of the moment’s weight.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

The title had settled over his shoulders like a cloak he hadn’t asked for, but one he would wear nonetheless.

Kazuha shook his head once, slow and amused. He said nothing—but the look he sent Heizou’s way spoke volumes.

Then Reina glanced up. “Kaedehara, would you mind coming up to say a few words?”

A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the room—some surprised, others simply amused.

Kazuha, for a beat, didn’t move.

Then he rose slowly, chair scraping gently against the tile, and stepped toward the front of the room with the kind of calm that made it hard to tell if he was nervous at all.

He stood by the table and took a small breath, gaze resting somewhere beyond the classroom windows.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t clear his throat. He only rested one hand loosely against the desk.

“…I hadn’t intended to stand here today,” he said quietly, voice steady but soft. “But it seems the wind had other plans.”

A few students chuckled under their breath.

Kazuha’s gaze flicked across the room—not lingering, but passing over each desk. Not avoiding anyone, but not focusing on anyone either. Except, maybe, just briefly, on a particular desk at the back.

“But if you’ve entrusted it to me, then I’ll do my part. Though, I don’t think a leader needs to speak the loudest,” he continued. “Or draw attention. I believe it’s more important to listen, to notice what others might miss. If I can do that—even just a little—then I’ll try to be someone worth trusting.”

He paused, then added, “I hope this year is kind to all of us. And I’ll do what I can to help it along.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then a few claps. Then more.

He bowed his head slightly and returned to his seat, a faint flush across his cheekbones—not embarrassment, but something gentler. A quiet hum beneath his skin.

As he sat down, applause still fading around him, his eyes drifted briefly across the room.

And there—near the back—Y/N was clapping with the rest of the class, their smile unmistakable even from a distance.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t exaggerated. But it was there, real and directed at him.

Kazuha looked away quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of his bag again. But something in his chest had already shifted—subtle as wind curling beneath sakura petals.

They smiled.

At him.

He blinked once, then lowered his gaze, unsure what to do with the warmth that lingered beneath his skin—just under his collar, in the spaces between breath and thought.

“Thank you, Kaedehara. Now—Vice President nominations.”

The voice cut clean through his reverie.

Kazuha startled slightly, back straightening as he turned toward the front again, his ears still faintly pink. Reina stood by the board, marker poised, her expression unreadable as ever.

He cleared his throat quietly and folded his hands atop his desk, as if the motion could steady him.

It didn’t.

Vice President votes were quick—Ayaka Kamisato, as expected. Secretary went to Kokomi, who nodded with her usual grace. Treasurer fell to a quiet girl named Sayo, known more for her impeccable attendance than her words.

And then came the committee representatives.

Heizou—unsurprisingly—claimed a spot, flashing a peace sign as Reina jotted his name. Y/N was also chosen as class representatives as well, their names met with murmurs of agreement and nods from classmates who clearly expected it.

Itto, somehow, was selected….

Kazuha could only assume Thoma had strategically avoided nomination by focusing on helping others vote instead of drawing attention to himself. Thoma’s grin was bright as ever when his name wasn’t called, and Kazuha couldn't help picturing the meetings ahead—loud, chaotic, and somehow always centered around Itto’s latest ‘great idea.’

As the announcements wrapped up, the weight of newly assigned titles began to settle. Some students leaned back with satisfied smirks, others exchanged amused glances or groaned about responsibilities.

Then, Sumeragi-sensei flipped her folder closed. “Assigned seating begins now. Please move to your designated desks.”

Despite the clearly posted seating chart near the board, a few hopeful students hovered near preferred spots—testing whether the system would really be enforced. One student in particular had already made themselves comfortable three rows back, a small potted plant sitting neatly at the corner of their desk....

Sumeragi-sensei paused mid-sentence, her gaze narrowing.

“Y/N,” she said sharply. “You’re in seat B. That's the second row, beside Kaedehara.

Kazuha glanced to his right. Someone else was there—one of the newer boys, who looked up, startled, and began hurriedly collecting his things. Kazuha hadn’t noticed him settling in that seat… maybe his mind had still been reeling from the sudden class president nomination, and everything else had blurred.

Y/N blinked. “Ah—sorry, Sensei. I didn’t check the chart properly.”

“Assigned seats aren’t merely decorations,” Sumeragi-sensei replied flatly.

Laughter rippled around them. The boy awkwardly vacated seat B, mumbling an apology. Y/N gave him a grateful nod, cradled their plant again, and moved forward.

Kazuha sat a little straighter as they approached.

They slid into the seat beside him, offering a sheepish smile as they set the pot down with a soft clink. “Didn’t think I’d end up this close to the front.” they mumbled…

Once everyone had more or less settled, Y/N turned slightly toward him. “Looks like we’re desk neighbors!"

Kazuha blinked. That smile—genuine, a little amused—brought the faintest warmth to his chest.

He meant to say something elegant. Even a basic hello would’ve sufficed.

Instead, he muttered, “Ah. Yes. I—good morning.”

They tilted their head. “You okay?”

“I am… functioning.”

A laugh bubbled out of them—quiet, genuine. "That’s one way to put it.”

It stirred something in him. Not discomfort. Not panic. Just… awareness. A warmth spreading behind his collarbones like the first flush of spring.

From the far end of the row, Heizou groaned audibly.

“Oh my god. That was painful.”

Thoma, seated beside him, stifled a laugh. “You mean endearing.”

“No, I mean painful! Like secondhand embarrassment clawing up my spine.”

Y/N turned halfway, having caught part of it. “You’re just jealous I get to sit near the class president.” while amusement flickering in their eyes.

Kazuha flushed faintly. “That title was… not my intention.

“Maybe not,” they said with a smile. “But it suits you.”

Kazuha looked at them for a breath too long.

Then—slowly, shyly—he smiled back.

They turned away to open their notebook, humming softly under their breath as if nothing unusual had passed between them.

Kazuha, meanwhile, wrote quietly into his own:

Calm. Breathe.

It didn’t help.

TAGLIST: @3amstoryreader

all writing belongs to @svynie. do not repost— without my explicit permission— translate or plagiarize.

[sillygooseness]

obviously “DAISIES” by justin bieber as well, yes??

“satellite” by harry styles is such a lister bird pining song and he most definitely practices that drum part before the last chorus with the song blasting in his ears to feel some sort of catharsis sorry i don’t make the rules

[blank-potato]

Something Special

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

This time, in a sudden pfft, it sprays something directly into both of your faces—a cloud of shimmering mist exploding into the air. It smells sweet... too sweet. Like overripe fruit or syrup, or cotton candy left in the sun. Almost sickly. Bob coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “What was that?” “A defence mechanism, perhaps—” you begin, but your voice trails off as something shifts. The stem starts to grow, elongating right before your eyes, inch by inch. Then, like something out of a sci-fi movie, thin tendrils begin sprouting from the base, curling and stretching like green tentacles. “Okay, what kind of flower shop did you go to?” you ask, backing up a step. Bob’s eyes are locked on it in horror. “I don’t know! I swear it looked normal! The lady had an apron!” Or You’ve been the live-in doctor at Avengers Tower for a year, and Bob wants to get you something special to celebrate. Unbeknownst to him, that something special turns out to be a sex plant. 

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit content, sex plant, sex pollen, p in v, cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, crazy thoughts from horny!reader, Bob's good intentions backfiring

WC: 6.9k

A/N: I saw Thunderbolts earlier this week, and I felt compelled to write something! My Marvel obsession is so back, and I’m so in love with Bob, and consuming so much Thunderbolts fanfiction, I think I’m genuinely going crazy.

Part 2

⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡⋆˙⟡

Bob teeters on his heels as he looks around the flower shop. He was here to get a gift for you, but he had no idea what you would like. Then, while browsing the camellias, a woman appears, half scaring the life out of him, asking him what he’s looking for, and he tells her as best he knows how.

“I’m looking for something special for someone special.”

“Special, huh?” She replies with a mischievous smile, “I have just the flower for you.”

He watches as she disappears into the recesses of the shop and wonders if he’s making the right decision. 

You were important to him, but maybe flowers were too much; perhaps you would see right through it and see the feelings he was trying (and failing) to hide. The whole team could see it. Alexei kept giving him unsolicited —and mostly unhelpful— advice about it, while John and Ava never missed a chance to tease him whenever they caught him gawking at you. And Yelena and Bucky tried their best to nudge him forward in their own ways; Yelena with blunt encouragement, Bucky with quieter, knowing looks and the occasional grunt that somehow conveyed volumes.

But Bob remained resolute, content with just admiring you from afar.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Ever since you were introduced to the team as their live-in doctor, he knew he didn’t stand a chance. You were a ray of sunshine. Exceptional at your job and had this strange but beautiful quality where you could make anyone feel at ease within seconds of meeting them. 

He felt it firsthand when he walked into the med bay in the Tower. You were sitting there, clipboard in hand, and welcomed him in with a warm smile, motioning for him to sit. He obeyed without a word, nerves already prickling beneath his skin.

“I’m just going to take some blood samples, okay?” you said gently.

His eyes darted around the room—white, sterile walls, the faint smell of antiseptic in the air. Tests didn’t often lead to good things in his experience, and he felt that this one would be no different. His posture stiffened, and his breath was shallow. But as if sensing his unease, you placed a hand on his arm, steady, reassuring.

“If you’re feeling uncomfortable, I’m right here. And if you want me to stop, you just go right ahead and tell me.”

Bob nodded slowly, looking into your eyes—your beautiful, beautiful eyes that somehow made the rest of the world fade to background noise.

“I just need you to take some deep breaths for me, can you do that?”

You looked at him with such gentle care, and for a moment, he felt like he’d known you longer than just a minute. It felt crazy how fast he was falling for you, but it was happening all the same.

“Yeah… I can do that,” he replied, voice low.

And he had never been the same.

From that moment on, he’d been falling for you—hard. Making lovey-dovey eyes at you over morning coffee in the communal kitchen, pretending not to watch you when you laughed at someone’s joke, finding excuses to linger a little longer in any room you were in. 

He toys with his watch, waiting for the florist to come back and flinches as he hears crashes and curses. He has half a mind to go and check on her when she suddenly pops out with a crooked smile and her hair askew, presenting the flower to him. 

“Trust me, your girlfriend is going to love this one. Rarest thing in here.”

“She’s…” He stops, watching as the worker flits around the shop, putting the finishing touches on the arrangement. What use was it explaining anyway? How could he put you into words?

It was a strange flower, one he didn’t recognise. Its petals folded into each other. It was unlike any flower he’d ever seen, almost alien. But it was also beautiful, rare and special. Just like you. He buys it in a heartbeat, but the anxiety that follows is sickening. As he goes back to the tower, he thinks about turning around, getting something safer—chocolates, maybe. A coffee voucher. Literally anything else.

‘Maybe it’s not good enough, or what if she hates it?’

He plays with the loose yarn on his sweater as he nervously looks down at the plant. 

‘What if she pretends to like it but actually hates it and, in turn, hates me?’

He overthinks all the way down the street, onto the subway, up the Avengers Tower elevator, until he eventually reaches the door to your office.

Then—three knocks. His heart sinks into his stomach the second his knuckles leave the wood.

The door swings open, with you on the other side of it, a smile blooming on your face as soon as you see him.

“Bob!” You say excitedly. 

You’re clearly happy to see him and hurriedly usher him inside. The rest of the Avengers had been on a mission for the past two days and counting, so it was just you and Bob. It had been quite nice to spend time with him one-on-one. You even had a movie night the night prior, which ended with Bob falling asleep on your shoulder.

“What do you have there?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, catching sight of something he's hiding behind his back.

He hesitates for a beat, then slowly brings it forward, revealing a single, delicate flower—its petals a rich, otherworldly shade of purple, like something from a dream. It’s almost enchanting. You stare at it in awe, momentarily speechless.

“It’s a gift,” he says, placing it on your desk, voice shy but steady. “To celebrate you being here for a year. I… we really appreciate you.”

Your eyes soften at his words. You can see he’s nervous, waiting for your reaction like it might determine the course of his entire week.

But all you feel is warmth. You thought it was so sweet of him to do this for you; it was so thoughtful, so Bob. You’d felt a connection with him from the moment you met, something quiet but persistent that never quite went away.

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely. “I love it. Truly.”

You’re probably smiling too much, but when it comes to Bob, you can’t help yourself. You snap out of your loving stare as something flickers in your peripheral vision.

“Is it supposed to glow?” you ask, your eyes narrowing slightly as the petals shimmer faintly, a soft pulse of light running through them like a heartbeat.

“I, uh… I don’t think so?” Bob replies, frowning.

He leans in, squinting at the flower. The glow pulses again. Cautiously, he pokes it with one finger.

The flower twitches.

“It moved,” he says, eyes wide with a mix of fascination and fear.

“What? No way.” You step closer, trying to get a better look, equal parts sceptical and intrigued.

But then it twitches again, its petals bristling at the touch, and both of you freeze.

“…Did you buy this from a normal flower shop?” you ask slowly, eyeing him.

“I thought I did!” Bob says, his voice pitching just a little higher than usual.

You poke it again.

This time, in a sudden pfft, it sprays something directly into both of your faces—a cloud of shimmering mist exploding into the air. It smells sweet... too sweet. Like overripe fruit or syrup, or cotton candy left in the sun. Almost sickly.

Bob coughs, waving his hand in front of his face. “What was that?”

“A defence mechanism, perhaps—” you begin, but your voice trails off as something shifts.

The stem starts to grow, elongating right before your eyes, inch by inch. Then, like something out of a sci-fi movie, thin tendrils begin sprouting from the base, curling and stretching like green tentacles.

“Okay, what kind of flower shop did you go to?” you ask, backing up a step.

Bob’s eyes are locked on it in horror. “I don’t know! I swear it looked normal! The lady had an apron!”

In hindsight, the florist did seem a bit sketchy. The shop was tucked away in a dark, back alley, its dim interior lit flickering by lamps that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the ’70s. The air was thick with a faint smoke that he had to try not to choke on, but in his defence, Bob had just assumed it was part of the shop’s "vintage" aesthetic. 

The flower twitches again, and one of the tendrils gently brushes your desk lamp, knocking it askew.

“We should probably contain that,” you say.

“Or burn it,” Bob offers weakly.

You don’t have enough time to deliberate before they’re coming straight for you. They coordinate a joint attack and grab hold of your shirt. It has a relentless grip on it and tears it apart without a care. In the back of your mind, you have to take a second to mourn one of your favourite work shirts.

The plant, however, is far from done with you. Before you can react, one of its slippery, vine-like tendrils reaches for your wrist, its texture cold and unnervingly smooth. It’s trying to pin you down, the tendril wrapping around your forearm like a slippery snake.

“Bob!” you yell, panic rising in your voice.

Bob springs into action without hesitation. He grabs your arm, pulling you back just in time. But in the chaos, both of you tumble backwards, your feet tangling in each other’s as you fall to the floor.

You land… on top of him.

For a moment, everything stops. Your breath catches, his heart races beneath you, and there’s a stillness, an accidental closeness that makes everything feel like it’s happening in slow motion.

“Well, that was eventful,” you comment, breathless, glancing back over your shoulder at the plant—still twitching, preparing for its next move. The tendrils are growing faster now, more aggressive, and it’s only a matter of time before it tries to grab you again.

“Watch out,” he warns, voice sharp, as he pushes you aside with surprising strength. The moment you’re clear, he rolls to his feet, eyes fixed on the plant.

It lashes out, one of its tendrils reaching for your throat, but Bob is faster, shoving you out of harm’s way just in time.

In the seconds it took you to escape from it, the plant had doubled in size, its tentacles now oozing with a thick, viscous substance. It seemed to pulse, almost alive with an aggressive energy, like it was anticipating its next strike.

The plant gives you no time to catch your breath. Before you can react, it swipes again, this time reaching for Bob’s jeans. With surprising strength, one of the tendrils successfully yanks him to the ground, dragging him closer to its growing mass. The little tendrils begin climbing up the inside of his trousers, slithering toward his legs like they have a mind of their own.

“Holy shit,” you exclaim, adrenaline flooding your veins as you rush to grab his hands, pulling with all your strength in a futile attempt to free him. Where are the Avengers when you need them?

Unfortunately, you have no super strength or any useful abilities. Bob’s still being dragged closer, inch by inch. 

But what you do have, is a pretty damn good throwing arm.

You glance around the room, your mind racing for anything you can use. Your eyes land on the lamp on your desk, your favourite one. Bob had always joked about how you wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Without a second thought, you sprint across the room, grab it in one smooth motion, and hurl it toward the plant’s centre of mass.

The lamp flies through the air, and you’re about ready to start celebrating, but just as it’s about to make contact with the plant, the tendrils shift, dodging the attack like it’s alive and aware of what’s coming.

“Crap,” you mutter. "It dodged."

This had to be one of the worst moments of your life. 

Bob tries to crawl away, his muscles screaming in protest as he drags himself across the floor. His mind is a chaotic mess, every thought running a mile a minute. This day wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was supposed to give you the gift and see that smile of yours light up your face, not get fondled by a plant monster.

The tendrils continue their relentless pursuit, now reaching the edge of his boxers, squirming and twisting, as if looking for any way to get inside. 

“Hold on, just a second!”

“Please hurry, it’s kind of ticklish,” He blurts out as he writhes on the ground, “And wet.”

They find their way inside his boxers, reaching his dick and starting to wrap their way around it, making him tremble. 

The tentacles continue to secrete that viscous liquid, slick and glistening as they slip up and around his cock, their movements still clumsy, but starting to adapt to what makes him react. Bob struggles beneath its weight, panic flashing in his eyes as the tendrils flick over his sensitive tip, starting to pulse around him.

You’re frozen for a moment, heart racing, watching him fight against the plant’s hold. The air is thick with desperation, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re going to be too late. But then your mind snaps back into focus. This can’t keep going. You need a plan and fast.

You scan the room, eyes darting from the plant to Bob and back again. The papers on your desk, the fire extinguisher near the door, the window—wait. Without wasting another second, you rush over to it, pulling it down with a swift motion. You have no idea if this’ll work, but Bob’s safety is the only thing that matters, and you’d do anything to ensure it.

“Hold on!” you shout, as you aim the nozzle at the base of the plant.

You pull the trigger.

It’s temporarily thwarted, and you breathe out a sigh of relief when you see it retreat from Bob’s jeans.

“Come on!” you shout, reaching for Bob and pulling him to his feet. The moment you’ve got a solid grip on him, you both scramble toward safety, adrenaline fuelling your movements.

You rush toward the front door, but just as you reach it, the plant’s vines stretch out, blocking your escape. The thick, twisted tendrils curl around the doorframe, trapping you in. 

You turn on your heels, panic setting in as you dash to the far side of the room. There’s only one other way out, the door that leads to the lab part of your office.

You reach the door, flinging it open just in time, and drag Bob inside with you. As you slam the door shut, you quickly lock it, the sound echoing. The room is dim, but you barely notice the light as you both stand there, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. It’s all you can both hear before you finally break the silence.

“What the fuck?” 

He’s panicking. He’s panicking hard. 

He attempted to do something nice, something to show just how much you mean to him and the rest of the team but instead he got you attacked by a plant that wanted to fuck you. 

“I screwed this up. I’m so sorry. I... I—” He stammers, his voice trembling with regret. He tries to continue, but the words seem to catch in his throat. He’s frustrated, overwhelmed by the situation and the guilt of what just happened.

You immediately notice the signs. The way he's retreating into himself, shoulders hunched, eyes avoiding yours. The guilt and panic are all over his face, and for a moment, you realise how much this is affecting him. He must think you’re mad at him, but you’re not. Not in the slightest. You weren’t even sure if you could be mad at him; he was Bob. 

You take a step forward, placing yourself in his line of sight, standing in front of him. You don’t need to say anything else. You don’t need him to apologise again.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” your voice acting as his source of stability, even though you’re both still shaking from the chaos.

But before he can respond, there’s a loud bang against the door. A deep, guttural scraping noise as the plant’s tentacles push against it, trying to force their way inside. They both jump at the sounds, and he tries to curl in on himself, his hands gripping into his hair as he shuts everything out, nothing but his own voice echoing in his head. 

‘Of course, you’d mess this up.’

“Bob, look at me, please.”

‘She probably hates you now.’

He opens his eyes slowly, and you can see it—the fear. The gold in his eyes flickers, a silent reflection of his inner turmoil. He’s been holding it all together for so long, but now, one mistake has him spiralling, and it’s all spilling out in front of you.

He hates that you can see it. The cracks in his composure, the weight of the guilt sinking into his chest. The last thing he wanted was to fall apart in front of you, to let you see just how much he’s struggling with everything.

“I put you in danger,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze drops to the floor, shame and regret lacing his words.

You can’t let him carry this alone. You can’t let him drown in his own guilt when you know the truth: it wasn’t his fault. He only wanted to do something nice for you.

You step forward further into his space, cupping his face gently in your hands. His breath catches and you feel his warm skin under your palms, the tension in the air thick but not overwhelming.

“It’s okay,” you say softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “I’m alright, aren’t I?”

‘She doesn’t mean it.’

“I try to do one thing, and I just made things worse. I ruined everything—” 

“You didn’t ruin anything, okay? I loved the fact that you got me a gift, and we’re going to get out of this.”

You pull him close, and you both embrace each other tightly, the chaos outside fading away for a brief moment as you both seek comfort in the silence of the hug.

But suddenly, like a switch had been flipped, you become acutely aware of every touch, every shift of his body against yours. The warmth of his arms, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, it all feels intensified. It’s like you’re hyper-aware of the sensation of him against you, and it’s overstimulating in a way you weren’t expecting.

You subconsciously nuzzle into his touch, breathing in his scent. He smells so good, you would even describe it as intoxicating. The feeling of him holding you, so close, feels delicious. The feeling of his fingers against your bare skin, mouth-watering.

You lean into him even more, a soft moan slipping out before you catch yourself. The sound barely escapes, but it’s enough to make you freeze. You jerk back from him, heart pounding in your chest.

From the look on his face, he didn’t hear it. Or if he did, he’s pretending not to, but you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, flooding your body. The flush spreads down your neck, over your skin, and you can’t stop it.

“We’ll…get through this,” Bob says, agreeing with your earlier words.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter out, still feeling the heat spreading throughout your body. 

Then, as if his panicked brain finally catches up to the situation, Bob’s eyes flick over your form, and his eyes widen just a little when he realises you’re topless, wearing nothing but your bra. His face flushed with embarrassment, and in an instant, he looks away, his cheeks turning a shade of red at the fact that he had just hugged you in this state. Like the gentleman he is, he immediately averts his gaze, trying to give you some privacy.

“Oh. I uh, you should take my sweater.”

“Oh, it’s okay, I–”

Both of you nervously bumble until Bob starts taking off his sweater. The entire thing plays in slow motion.  His hands, a little shaky, reach for the hem. The fabric bunches up in his fingers before he slowly pulls it over his head. 

Bit by bit, his chest and torso are revealed. You can’t help but notice the definition of his muscles and appreciate them greatly. Finally, he hands the sweater to you, his expression nervous but kind. “Here…” he says softly, not looking you directly in the eyes.

Damn it. 

He’s ripped. 

You didn’t know when you woke up this morning that you’d be treated to an impromptu striptease courtesy of Bob Reynolds. You can’t believe all of that was hiding under that knitted sweater. There’s a sudden wave of arousal so strong it almost knocks you clean off your feet. Your eyes wander his sculpted form, and it’s like every part of him was made to drive you crazy. You know you’re staring, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. 

“So… how are we planning on taking back my office?” Your words come out breathy, your eyes are still very much fixed on his body, but he seems oblivious to the fact.

“Maybe we can…” He trails off, distracted by the way you were starting to sway, “Hey, are you alright?”

He had now started to become clued into the way you were staring him down like he was a full-course meal. And you’re just happy he couldn’t read your mind because you were thinking the most unhinged things, like how you wanted to lick the sweat off his abs.

“Holy fuck,” You mutter tiredly, shaking the thought away. You were a doctor, damn it, not a degenerate. Or at least not both at the same time. 

“Yeah, I’m just…” You start a sentence that you can’t finish as your body continues to heat up and your desire for him starts to hurt. You just want to be closer to him, and the overwhelming need to touch his abs comes back in full force. You try to focus on something else but just land on his arms and you wondered how’d they feel wrapped around your waist when he’d fuck you. 

“Fuck!” 

You start pacing around the room, trying to get rid of this madness that seemed to be overtaking you. And by pacing it was more of an awkward stumble as bit by bit your limbs turned to rubber and your brain to mush with horny thoughts of Bob. 

You stop moving and drop to the floor, hugging your knees and squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you cannot see the hot man, he cannot haunt you. You decide to take deep breaths because that always helps, and try to calm yourself down. You are, however, wearing Bob’s sweater, which smells like him and therefore smells like heaven. You moan, definitely loud enough for him to hear and bury your face in it. 

“Talk to me,” Bob says as he crouches down by your side, the comforting pats on your back feeling more like kisses on the neck. You just wanted to climb him like he’s a tree and live there forever. 

“Need to take this off.” 

You start kicking off your trousers as they start to stick to you, feeling more like sandpaper on your skin. Next, you peel off his sweater and hold it in your hands, resting it against your cheek, breathing it in every so often. 

“I can’t be near you right now.”

“Why?” He asks and if you had your head on straight, you’d state the obvious. Did he not see the fact that you were seconds away from grinding on him?

But you did have to think about what caused this, and there’s only one theory that makes sense. 

“I think the plant you got is a sex plant.”

Bob blinks at you.

“A what?” 

While falling down an internet rabbit hole, you had heard about plants like these with certain properties that lent themselves quite nicely to certain activities. These properties including sex pollen that seemed to only affect you and not him. At a later date, you’d love to run some tests to see why. Maybe it was something in the serum he was given that made him immune to certain things. But all logical thought was being dropkicked out the window right about now, replaced with the need to fuck yourself silly on his dick.

You explain to him the whole sex plant thing as best as you can without going feral. The need to have his hands all over your body was becoming near next to unbearable.

“Why do you know this?”

“God forbid a woman is informed,” You sigh as you fan yourself with the sleeve of his sweater, more of his scent wafting into your face, making you more hungry for him than ever.

“So, how do we fix this?” He asks, desperate to help you out.

“I can just wait it out,” you suggest, knowing full well you couldn’t “wait it out”.  Each second that passed was a second not spent bouncing on Bob’s cock which was a second wasted in your opinion. But this was Bob, your Bob, you didn’t want sex pollen induced horniness to reduce your friendship to rubble. You could see it now. Things would never be the same. No more book chat over morning coffee or late night milkshake runs and you’d be damned if you lost them. 

“You’re burning up.” He places his hand against your forehead, and you whimper at the contact, shocking you both.

“Tell me, what will fix this?” He repeats.

It’s clear that there’s no avoiding it, so you tell him. 

“...sex.”

There’s a heavy silence in the room, only accompanied by the background noise of the plant going on a rampage in your office. It was obvious, sex plant, therefore sex will alleviate the effects of said plant but saying it out loud didn't make it any easier. 

“But I won’t ask that of you. I won’t,” You say firmly. 

Did you want him? Yes, you wanted him bad. Ever since his floppy-haired, doe-eyed, cute self came in for his first check-up. But you didn’t want it under such dire circumstances, with a sex crazed plant trying to knock the door down. You wanted it to mean something. You wanted to know that he liked you as much as you like him.

You watch as Bob’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing slightly as if coming to a decision. There’s something in his gaze, something vulnerable but strong at the same time, like he’s finally deciding to take a step forward.

“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” he says firmly. “I don’t want to see you in pain like this.”

You shake your head, the words he says sinking in, but the effects of the sex pollen make it hard to respond.

“I can’t have sex with you like this. It’s not fair on you,” you finally manage, your voice quiet, almost defeated.

Bob’s face softens, his eyes flickering with understanding and something deeper. He steps closer, his tone gentler but unwavering. “It’s worth it if it helps you. You’re hot and shivering. What kind of friend would I be if I let you suffer?”

The sincerity in his words hits you hard. You feel your throat tighten, fighting back the wave of emotion threatening to spill over. You’ve always known Bob cared about you, but hearing that he was willing to do this for you was something else. 

“Bob…” Your voice breaks slightly, but you push through it.

He stops himself then, looking away for a moment, his own vulnerability creeping to the surface. "I care about you. I…" He trails off, a deep breath escaping him as if he's preparing himself for what’s to come. “I like you.”

You're struggling to find the words as the one thing you’ve been wanting to hear is finally said.

“You like me?”

Bob looks down, his eyes shifting nervously, afraid that he might be ruining everything.

“I like you too,” You admit. “You have no idea how much.”

Not wanting the moment to pass you by, you cup his face and kiss him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. The kiss is desperate and needy, your hands gliding over his body with such urgency. All that pent-up need and tension came out in this one kiss. You cling onto each other like kissing is the last thing you’ll ever do. 

You pull back, looking at him, his cheeks slightly flushed, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” You ask, your voice a mix of uncertainty and hope.

Instead of responding, he pulls you back in, his hands gentle but insistent, bringing you closer once more. Then, before you can say anything else, he lays you back down on the floor, his body hovering over yours.

“Does that answer your question?” he whispers, before leaning back in, his lips brushing against yours once more.

You smile into the kiss and wrap your legs around his waist from beneath him. 

You shiver as his hands travel up your back, his fingers finding the clasp of your bra. It’s clumsy at first, fumbling with the hooks, the fabric catching between his fingers.

“Oh yeah, this one’s a nightmare to take off,” you comment, remembering the countless times you’d try to undo the clasps before giving up and just pulling it over your head instead. You chuckle lightly at the memory, tension easing for just a second.

“I think I almost got it,” he says, determination in his voice. Finally, after a few more attempts, he gets the clasp undone, tossing it aside with a small sigh of relief.

You feel a warmth spread through you, as look up at him.

“You’re perfect,” he says softly, his lips finding their way to your neck. The way he touches you, the way his hands move, everything feels electric, like every little action is charged with more meaning than you ever expected.

His hands wander down towards your panties next, rubbing at your core through them. He can feel that you’ve already soaked through them, your desperation no laughing matter. 

He knows that because you immediately trap his hand between your thighs and start lifting your hips to rub against it.

His eyes widen as he watches you roll your hips, so completely wrecked, and you’d barely even gotten started. This was a whole new side of you that he could get used to. 

“You need to let go of my hand for me to touch you,” Bob says, and you reluctantly do, only because you know he’s gonna give you something better.

He pulls off your panties and is met with the most beautiful sight. 

“You’re so wet,” he comments spreading open your dripping pussy and flicking at your clit.

He slowly inserts his fingers and smiles at how easily they slip in. “You can take two already,” he says and almost in awe as your walls clench around him. You’re mewling and twitching with every swipe of his fingers, your wetness spilling around them. His fingers are so thick and he stretches you out so good, you wonder how your own fingers ever felt like enough. 

“So good,” You whine out, and he feels encouraged to ever stop making you feel like this. 

He curls them inside of you, brushing against your sensitive spot over and over again, making you squeal. You start to squirm, but he holds you still, his thigh and spare hand keeping you spread open for him. 

He starts reassuring you with soothing circles on your thigh, “Right there?”

You blink away the haze and nod, “Yeah, keep going.”

He repeats his actions, his fingers threatening to bring you to an orgasm so fast that you’re almost embarrassed. 

“Need you so bad,” You whisper as you thrust back against his fingers, desperate to have more of him. You’d take his whole fist if he’d give it to you. 

“I need more than just your fingers.”

He looks up at you. This was a huge step, but one you were both ready to take.

“Condom?”

“I’m on birth control,” You say, and thankfully, you were. It’s not like you had a condom on you; they were in your purse, which was in the room with the raging tentacle monster.

He pulls off his jeans and boxers and he’s left exposed in front of you. He feels vulnerable, but he knows he can trust you.

“Ready?” You ask him and he replies with a breathy, “Yeah,” before laying a sweet kiss on your forehead. 

He lines himself up with your hole, which is actively trying to suck him in as he pushes into you slowly. The relief of feeling him inside of you is so good, the sound of his moans as he bottoms out inside of you is just as good. 

He starts thrusting into you deeply, as you grip his shoulders. It felt better than anything you’ve ever done with anyone else. It was partly the sex pollen, but more than anything, it was because it was him. You were finally with him after months upon months of pining. Finally able to feel his skin beneath your fingertips, to hear his moans vibrate against your skin, to lean his forehead against yours as he ruts into you. It was slow but passionate, as you finally confirmed how you both feel about each other. 

You feel like you were on another planet, but you wanted to experience every part of this man, so you whisper in his ear, “Wanna ride you.”

You’ve never seen him move so fast, in seconds you’re sitting up right, warming his cock as his lips attacking your neck.

You’re about to start moving when he stops you. 

“Just a second.”

You sit there, desperate to feel him moving inside you, but if he says to wait, then you’ll wait. He cups one of your boobs in his hands and his tongue flicking around your areola just enough to tease you.

“Bob…” You whine out, and he smiles up at you, and it’s one of his dopey smiles that makes your heart melt. Then as if you couldn’t feel any more sensitive, he starts sucking on your nipple, his eyes closed in pure focus and concentration. You fully scream, your legs quivering and walls fluttering around his cock. His tongue was working overtime, and you felt like you could come undone with just this. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” You cry out as you pull closer by his hair.

“You’re so dramatic,” He laughs before going back to his ministrations, determined to make you lose your mind. 

“Just like that,” You cry out as you wrap your arms around his neck. You shake and tremble so much that you just have to start riding him. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own.

Bob rests his head in the crook of your neck as you work his cock up and down between your folds.  “You feel so good.” His voice is shaky and needy as he’s unable to do anything but give in to the pleasure you’re giving him. His legs were shaking with how good it felt, and it was an ego boost to say one thing. 

“Wait a second,” he says before he holds your hips up and starts thrusting up into you from below, giving you everything he’s got. 

“Oh Bob…”

The feeling is so overwhelming that you start to cry, tears flowing down your cheeks, each one showing just how good he was giving it to you. But seeing your tears, he stops immediately, wiping them from your eyes. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

His eyebrows are furrowed with a concern plastered on his face, worried that he had hurt you.

You shake your head profusely, “Keep going. I’m crying because it feels so good.”

“Yeah?”

With some renewed confidence, he continues thrusting into you, and it’s your turn to rest your head against his neck.

He whispers against your ear, “You feel so good.”

“Wanna turn around for me?”

“O-okay,” You stutter out, your mind half in the clouds as he spins you around and you land back on his dick, reverse cowgirl.

“Holy shit,” he says as he starts pounding into you again. You feel him so deep inside of you, you never want him to leave. 

You feel him gripping onto your ass so you imagine the view must be good. 

“Harder?”

“Yes, fuck please,” You reply immediately. The way he was thrusting up inside of you had you crying out for mercy, and if he wanted to go harder, you’d let him. He picks up the pace, and the sound of his skin slapping against yours is music to your ears. 

“So good, you’re such…” He stops for a moment, and you can hear him hesitate, but you suppose his internal thoughts won out as he finishes his sentence, “Such a good girl.”

And you’d be lying if those words, escaping his lips, in his voice, didn’t make you want to explode.

Then he slows down before pulling out of you, you’re about to whine and complain, but he intercepts that. 

“Can you hold onto me?” He asks, and you do it immediately, desperate to feel him on you again. You suddenly feel yourself being lifted into the air, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He effortlessly lifts you over and lays you down on an examination table.

He lines himself up with your hole again and thrusts right into it, not holding back one bit. Your body is shaking and trembling with each thrust, and you’re screaming his name with each one.

“So good, so good,” he repeats like a mantra, like he can’t think of anything else but you.

He lifts your hips, tilting your pelvis and hitting your G-spot dead on, and you almost choke on your spit.  You’re not even sure what comes out of your mouth; you just know it’s not of this world. You head lolls to the side as you drool for his cock to be fed deeper into you. 

“Right there, right there, right…”, You bluster out before being cut off by your own scream. 

You weren’t going to last much longer; in fact, you’re surprised you lasted this long. You just needed one final thing to put you over the edge. 

“B-bob. Put…put your hand here,” You say guiding his hand above your stomach and bite your lip as he presses down feeling his cock inside of you.

“I’m gonna—” You sob before you’re cumming harder than you ever have, calling out for Bob all the while. Bob holds onto your bucking hips as he watches you squirt on his cock. The orgasm that hits you is blinding, your toes curl, your fists tighten, and tears fall from your eyes. 

You are gone. 

You’re only brought back to your senses by Bob saying your name and soft kisses on your face. When he sees you’re responsive, he smiles and starts brushing your hair off your face. But then you realise, he’s stopped moving and you absolutely can’t have that. You can still feel him pulsing inside of you and you needed him to cum.

“Keep going,” you mumble.

“Hm?”

You sit up closer to you, your fingers gripping his back. 

“Keep going until you’re done with me.”

You needed this, you needed him. You wanted him to fuck you so hard that your pussy remembered him, you wanted him to fill you up so much that just the smell of him would bring you to your knees and that wasn’t just the sex pollen talking. 

“I think I can do this day,” Bob says and that he does. He fucks you against the wall, the window, on the floor, if he had control of his Sentry powers he probably would’ve fucked you in the air too. By the time you’re done, the sex pollen has been well and truly pounded out of your system. 

But your troubles aren’t over. 

The plant knocks down the door with an ominous thud. Menacingly slithering over to the two of you, now triple in size, each tentacle bigger that the last, and you’re ready to accept your fate. This is how you would go out. Fucked to death by a plant.

The plant starts prodding at you both a tiny bit before pulling back away from you, much to your surprise. Obviously sensing its job was done, it reverts back to its original form in a matter of seconds and sits innocently in its pot. 

You guess your troubles are over. 

“So…can I be your boyfriend?” He asks and you laugh, “What do you think?”

Bob’s face lights up with a grin, and he kisses your cheek, “I think there’s a mess waiting for us in your office.”

“Well, couples that clean together stay together.”

Snuggling into his embrace, you let out a sigh of contentment. Nothing could ruin this day, not when you’d finally made Bob your man.

But, in the distance, you hear the shuffling of footsteps as the team has arrived back from their mission. You hear a faint, “What the fuck?” seemingly from Walker seeing the havoc the plant made but you’re too content in Bob’s arms to care. You’re exactly where you want to be.

Masterlist

[delusionisaplace]

"𝙞 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪…" 𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙨

have fun with these :))) | tag me if you use any <333 | send a request if you want more

Getting overly jealous over small interactions.

"So what? You're dating them now?"

Overthinking and overanalyzing every single one of their crushes' actions/words, trying to figure out the intent behind them.

"Do they like me back, or not?"

"I can never figure out what you want from me..."

Constantly trying to confess, but biting their tongue before words come out, just to wonder later what would have happened if they had just said what they meant.

Getting upset over cancelled plans and unanswered texts.

Glances that linger on longer than intended.

Recalling small touches, like brushed hands or a small nudge, and immediately yearning for that warmth again.

"Why don't you get it?"

"Is it not obvious? Am I doing something wrong?"

Feeling mad or annoyed with their crush for not realizing their feelings go deeper than just friendship.

Replaying old memories in their head and wishing to make more.

Feeling unwanted whenever they see their crush giving their time, attention, and affection to someone else.

Trying to subtly touch their crush to hint at their feelings.

The "playful" flirting that they mean with every bit of their heart.

Overcompensating by giving compliments and being extra nice, but feeling frustrated all the same when their crush doesn't seem to notice their efforts.

The constant daydreams about how life would be if they were together.

Avoiding any other romantic pursuit because they're stuck on that one person.

Staring at their crush whenever they laugh or smile and thinking: "I wish I can make this moment last forever."

this has been sitting in my drafts for over a year, and i finally found the motivation to finish lmaooo

[aamerchive]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s my body is a slaughterhouse.

[image credit: pinterest]

[sswwmmpptthhnngg]

I'm screaming. This characterization of Eddie is just perfect. Chef's kiss. No notes, no crumbs.

Masterlist / troubled cure, for a troubled mind (e.m.)

pairing: eddie munson x reader

summary: Friday night, you came to him looking for something to ease the pressure.

And Eddie knows he shouldn't want this. Not like this, not with you.

Because there’s something sacred in the way you’re breaking.

And he’s never been gentle with holy things.

warnings: heavy mutual pining, yearning, hurt/comfort, light angst, fluff, underage drug use, friends to lovers, underlying dom/sub dynamics, eventual smut, guilt/shame, religious imagery, soft eddie

(*denotes smut)

Ⅰ. troubled cure, for a troubled mind - “It’s called E. This is what you were asking about, right?”

Ⅱ. the things behind the sun - “I would always rather be happy than dignified.”

Ⅲ. look out, she'll pull you in* - “I’m proud of you.”

Ⅳ. mine's a tale that can't be told - “So this is… Dungeons and Dragons, huh?”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[rainbowpopeworld]

[softaestluv]

Guard Dogs

You were a proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy. Ghost only looked to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar. Even if Riley wanted more.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Neighbor!Reader

Tags: Angst, Fluff, & Eventual Smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2 , Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5 | masterlist | ao3

Ghost, who won’t admit it, gets a dog because when he’s not on assignments he gets lonely. His home feels terribly empty all by himself; the silence deafening, borderline painful. Adopted him from the local shelter, a German shepherd who he names Riley. Tells everyone that he needed a guard dog to protect his belongings when he’s not home, but everyone knows his prized possessions are far and few in between. Could hold all of them in his palms, carries them with him all the time anyways.

He trained Riley rigorously just like he did in the military. Treated him just as he did his trainees. Until he was obedient and well-behaved, listened to his every command. A perfect sidekick for him. Kept him company in his home that felt too large to be alone in. Always at his feet or curled into his side on the couch. A couch he probably shouldn’t let him on or bed sheets he shouldn’t be tangled in, but Ghost had a soft spot for him. Broke the rules for him because he was his dog after all, made the silence and loneliness a little bearable. Made his home a little more warm.

Riley who seemed to take a liking to you— the pretty bird who lived across the street. Made him think that maybe Riley was more like him than he realized; his own eyes had been drawn to you multiple times. He was usually well-behaved, didn’t approach strangers or jump on them for their attention. Ghost had trained him better than that. However, the first time he crossed your path on a walk, he pulled Simon by the leash, pressed his nose against your calf eagerly in interest.

You stopped in your tracks with a soft noise of surprise, “Oh! Well, hi there!” Your focus shifted to Simon, “Is it okay if I pet him?”

Simon hummed nodding his head in response. You gave him a small smile before squatting down eye level to Riley. Pet down his back and scratched behind his ears, Riley wagging his tail swiftly behind him, would probably purr if he was a cat. Dog hair covered your black shirt as he snuggled into your touch, but you didn’t seem to mind too much.

Cooed baby voiced praises to him that had him whining happily, “What’s your name, sweet boy?”

“Riley.”

“Riley,” You repeated softly, caused him to bark loudly in response. Snickered quietly at the noise, “Nice to meet you too, Riley.”

“Sorry, he doesn’t usually bug people like this,” Simon apologized, tugging on his leash lightly to pull him away.

You stood up at that, shaking your head, “Don’t worry. I don’t mind at all he’s a sweetheart.”

“Got dog hair all over ya now.” Gestured to the hair decorated on your clothing.

You exhaled a chuckle, brushing the fur off as best you could, “No worries, I live up the block. On my way home, anyways, just on a run.”

“Think I might live across from you. Moved in a couple months ago, but haven’t really been around.”

“Oh, yes! Wondered who lived there for a while now,” Held your hand out for him to take, “Nice to finally meet you.”

Riley whined when Simon pulled him away, tried to follow after you when you continued your jog. Sat and watched you run away despite Simon’s tugging or lack there of.

After that there wasn’t a day they didn’t run into you. Simon always woke up too early, military sleeping schedule beat into his mind. Didn’t have pleasant enough dreams to keep sleeping most nights anyways. At least that was the excuse he created in his mind to validate his actions.

Maybe Riley was his wingman, pressed his nose against your calf every time he passed you. Caused you to stop and greet them both, gave Riley endless pets and scratches before you turned your attention to Simon with a pretty smile. Drenched in sweat and frizzy hair from running, but each look from you had his mouth drying. Didn’t care that he wore a balaclava, didn’t even ask, chose to focus on his eyes instead.

It became his favorite part of his days, looking forward to the small interaction he would have with you. No matter how insignificant it was, but nothing seemed to be that way with you. Asked how he was, how did his day go yesterday, and how was Riley doing? How was work? Tiring, of course. Maybe you should sleep more instead of waking up so early!

He would if he could, but then he wouldn’t get to see you. His pretty neighbor, too sweet for her own good.

The only other time he got to see you was through your windows in the evening. It’s not like he was watching you, really, he wasn’t a stalker. He just so happened to be by his living room window everytime you came home from work. 6 o’clock on the dot, 5 on Fridays, started your weekends early.

Watched you slip out of your car, different sundress every time, dressed just like a pretty doll. Flowy and ruffled, hid your figure well enough. Didn’t flaunt it, but he knew what was underneath it all. He had seen your silhouette through the dimly lit curtains, shadows of you peeling layers off to shower.

Simon wasn’t a pervert, he wasn’t desperate for these small glimpses every night. But didn’t you know you should be more careful sweetheart? There were perverts out there, you were lucky he wasn’t one. He only kept looking to protect you from the evils of the world just like Riley. Your two personal guard dogs.

The evils of other men that you never brought home. No boyfriend in sight. Never stayed out late, even on weekends. Stayed snuggled on your couch or cooked for most of your free time. A proper good girl. Just like in his fantasies when he was a little boy.

Cooking he wanted desperately to try, spent hours in your kitchen preparing god knows what. It’s not like Simon would even know what you were making, his countless store bought meals buried in his trash were evident enough. Hoped he might get a taste one day, melt on his tongue because he knew it would be delicious.

But maybe this is where he belonged, on the other side of the glass, staring at you from afar rather than enjoying the warmth of your home and cooking. So he cherished what he could get, the small greetings every morning, and the clockwork of watching you every night. Even if Riley wanted more.