#and i’ve been thinking about it this whole time :’] and i’ve been wanting to write them for a long while now too so i thought it would be fu

[blank-potato]

Little Matchmaker

Summary:

She beams, hoping that you’re taking this seriously. Her Dad’s dating life was so important to this six-year-old. You glance back at the paper, “Number three: He makes the best pancakes.” Your stomach growls a little at the memory. To raise funds for the school soccer team, they had parents bring in food. And you distinctly remember his pancake station had the longest line. You might’ve gone back for seconds. Possibly thirds. Not your proudest moment. Erica clasps her hands together dramatically. “With chocolate chips and whipped cream!” “Impressive,” you admit.  “I told you.” She leans in, eyes sparkling. “You should just marry him.” “Whoa, whoa, that’s a bit fast. We went from dating to marriage?” Or Bob's daughter tries to set him up with you, her teacher, by writing a list of reasons why you should date him.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, teacher au, teacher!reader, parent!Bob, domestic fluff, angst (concerning Bob's past), flour fight, baking together, romantic tension via pottery

WC: 5.2k

A/N: Girl Dad Bob Reynolds, from my drafts to you.

***

You loved your job. Being able to teach felt like a calling more than a career.

It kept you busy with grading, bulletin boards, lesson plans, and an endless stream of glue sticks and glitter… but you lived for it. The joy on a kid’s face when they finally “got it,” the silly things they said that made you laugh days later, even the chaos, it was all part of the magic.

Sure, there was the occasional parent who drove you up the wall with too many emails or not enough patience.

But what you hadn’t counted on was the opposite. A parent that you may or may not have a crush on. 

You remember the first time you saw him. He was holding his daughter’s backpack on one shoulder and had his daughter’s hand in the other, leading her up to the classroom. You knew that you were getting a new student, but you hadn’t expected this much emotion at drop-off.

“You have to come with me!” she protested, before clinging tightly to his leg.

“I can’t,” he said gently, brushing her hair from her face.

“Why not?” she whined, voice rising, halfway to a tantrum.

“Because school is for little kids, not big kids like me,” he said, crouching down to her level, trying to soothe her with a smile.

“But, but…” she stammered, starting to fiddle with her fingers, her lower lip trembling.

“I don’t want you to be lonely, and what if I don’t make any friends…?” Erica’s voice cracked as her eyes welled with tears. Bob looked worried; he hated seeing her so distressed, but he had no idea how to quell her fears.

You stepped over to them, kneeling down slightly so you’re at her eye level. “Are you Erica?” you ask with a warm smile.

The little girl looked up with sad eyes and nodded.

“Well, Erica,” you said gently, “I’m your new teacher, and I just know you’re going to make a lot of friends…”

“How do you know?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, full of doubt.

You paused, pretending to think, tapping your finger against your cheek. “Hmm… let’s see…”

You leaned in a little, lowering your voice as if you’re about to reveal a secret. “Because kids who are kind and curious like you are like magnets for friends. And I’ve been teaching a long time, so I’m kind of an expert at spotting friend-makers.”

She looked at you sceptically, still fiddling with her fingers. “Really?”

“Really,” you nodded solemnly. “And I can tell you have a big heart, and that’s the best kind of person to be friends with.

“And,” you added, standing up and offering your hand, “if you come inside with me, I can show you where we keep the class treasure box. Only kids in our class get to see it.”

Her eyes widened just a bit. “There’s a treasure box?”

You nodded. “But only if you’re ready to come inside and start your adventure.”

She let go of her dad’s leg slowly, then reached for your hand. 

“Bye, Dad!” She said as she waves at him. She was still a little unsure but slightly less scared. 

***

Bob spent the whole day worrying about his daughter. What if moving her across the country was a mistake? What if she hated the school? What if she never smiles again? What if he’s ruined her life?

But the time he came to pick his daughter up, she was glowing, eyes bright, bouncing with energy.

“Daddy!” Erica called out, running up to him as she waved excitedly. “Need to say bye to my friends!” she blurted, barely pausing before dashing back over to them, already chatting like they'd known each other for years.

You step outside and spot him standing there, still looking slightly surprised, but relieved that his daughter was doing okay. You walk over, smiling, and Bob perks up a little when he sees you, not that you notice. 

“Seems like she had a good day,” Bob chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“She’s a social butterfly, huh? Turns out she didn’t need much help at all.”

“She was crying this morning like it was the end of the world,” he says, watching her with amazement. “Now she’s the mayor of the playground.”

“Kids are like that,” you reply with a warm chuckle. “Sometimes all they need is five minutes… and a little glitter.”

He smiles, softer this time. “Thanks for being that five minutes.”

“All in a day’s work,” you say with an easy grin.

“Yeah, but seriously. I, uh… I was really worried,” he continues, his voice quieter now, more sincere. “I mean, moving from Florida to New York has been a little rough for both of us, and… I’m just glad she has a great teacher to look out for her.”

The words catch you off guard, and your heart swells unexpectedly. It’s not that you do this for recognition, but it was rare that you’d ever hear a parent stop, look you in the eye, and tell you outright how much it meant.

“Thank you. She’s a great kid,” you say, your voice a little softer now, too.

He nods, watching Erica hug one last friend goodbye. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “She really is.”

Little footsteps patter up to the two of you, followed by heavy breathing as Erica reaches up for her dad.

“How was school?” Bob asks as he picks her up.

“It was so cool! I made so many friends. Like Ashley and Yasmin, and…”

She trails off, too excited to keep her thoughts in order. Bob chuckles as she starts listing names in rapid-fire succession, barely pausing for breath.

Then Erica turns to you, eyes bright.

“Thank you! You're like the best teacher ever.”

“See you tomorrow, Erica. You too, Mr Reynolds.”

“Oh no, just…just call me Bob.”

***

In the weeks since she joined your class, Erica’s been a joy to teach. She’s a sweet kid, always sharing with others, making drawings for her friends, asking plenty of questions. The perfect first-grader. But she’s also smart, and she knows how to use that spark to her advantage.

You’d tasked the class with writing a list of their favourite things or people, something simple and reflective. Erica had taken an extra-long time on her writing before sliding it onto your desk with a proud little grin. It was unlike any of the others, far more intentional, and not a single mention of pizza or puppies.

You look down at the paper in confusion. Before Erica can escape back to her desk, you say, “Erica, what is this?”

“A list.”

“I know, but—”

She huffs, pointing at it with her little chubby fingers. “Please. Read it.”

You glance back at the paper, where a title is scrawled in neat but slightly oversized handwriting:

"Reasons Why You Should Date My Dad."

“Erica, this isn’t—”

But she quickly interrupts you. 

“Are you married?”

You got close once, a six-year relationship leaving you with nothing but a broken fridge,  more credit debt and trust issues. 

“No.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

The online dating scene was abhorrent, and all people did on apps was disappoint at the very least and horrify at the worst. You briefly recall the time a man once threw up on his own jacket after drinking too much at dinner and sent you a Venmo request to pay for the dry cleaning.

“No.”

“Then date my dad,” She says, like it’s so simple. “I have all the reasons. See?”

She points back to her list, and you read the first one, “Number one, he’s really kind.”

He really was. He really was. By chance, you’d seen him once helping an old man push his stalled car across the street in the rain, and he hadn’t even noticed anyone was watching. Just did it like it was the obvious thing to do, weather inappropriate t-shirt soaked through, still smiling as he waved the guy off.

“He always helps me,” Erica adds quickly, “and plays Legos with me even when he’s sleepy.”

“Read the next one,” she urges, bouncing a little in place.

You sigh and keep reading, “He’s tall and strong.”

Erica nods along, “He’s as big as a tree, and he could lift one, I think…”

You raise an eyebrow. “He could lift a tree?”

She nods solemnly, clearly not joking. “Like, an Erica-sized one,” She answers, gesturing to herself, “Or a You-sized one.”

You fight back a laugh as you also try to fight the image of Bob lifting you in his arms. “Got it.”

She beams, hoping that you’re taking this seriously. Her Dad’s dating life was so important to this six-year-old. You glance back at the paper, “Number three: He makes the best pancakes.”

Your stomach growls a little at the memory. To raise funds for the school soccer team, they had parents bring in food. And you distinctly remember his pancake station had the longest line. You might’ve gone back for seconds. Possibly thirds. Not your proudest moment.

Erica clasps her hands together dramatically. “With chocolate chips and whipped cream!”

“Impressive,” you admit. 

“I told you.” She leans in, eyes sparkling. “You should just marry him.”

“Whoa, whoa, that’s a bit fast. We went from dating to marriage?”

She shrugs. 

You laugh, folding the paper in your hands, the corners soft from her constant touching. “How long have you been planning this?”

Erica tilts her head in thought. “Since last Thursday. When you helped me with my diorama, and said he was nice. I knew it.”

You stare at her, this tiny little mastermind, and for a second, you let yourself imagine it. Saturday mornings, chocolate-chip pancakes, someone to play Legos with after work… and maybe someone to come home to.

“Your dad is very nice, and tall and strong, but I think—”

You’re about to shut it down when Erica quickly interjects.

“Wait! Just keep it. Read the rest later,” she insists, her eyes shining with that determined, irresistible look.

How can you say no?

“Fine. I will,” you say, smiling.

“You pinky promise?” She holds out her tiny pinky.

You hook your finger with hers. “Pinky promise.”

***

Parents’ evening was always a little draining. Sitting at the desk, listening, and giving feedback to parents was... well, tiring in its own way.

You glance at the schedule and realise the next parent is Bob. You knew you had to talk about Erica’s not-so-subtle attempt at getting you two together, but you were dreading the awkwardness. 

Just then, there’s a loud clatter beside you. Bob had accidentally bumped into the door with his tall frame.

“Oops—sorry,” he apologises to the door, and shuffles in as quickly as he can. 

“Sorry that I’m late. I just—” 

“It’s alright, my last meeting ran a little long anyway,” you say, offering him a small smile. 

He sits down, shirt slightly rumpled, tie loosened, hair just starting to fall out of place; you can tell he’s come straight from work. You know the feeling: the rush, the exhaustion, the quiet buzz still lingering in your bones. And doing it all as a single parent? That’s no small feat.

He takes a seat, his nervous stature still on display like he hasn’t had a moment to let his body catch up to his brain.

You flip open your folder, clearing your throat gently.

“So, Mr Reynolds—”

“Oh, please, that’s too formal. Call me Bob.”

“Alright, Bob,” you correct with a smile. “Your daughter is doing very well. Maths is the one subject where she needs a bit of extra support, but English… she really seems to enjoy it.”

“Yeah,” he says with a soft chuckle, “she always has her nose in a book. I’ve had to buy a new bookshelf just to house them all…”

“She get that from you?” you ask, curiosity soft but genuine.

“Oh no, her mom…” Bob trails off, the smile fading for just a second. He pauses, shakes the thought off like brushing dust from his shoulder. “She was the bigger reader.”

You catch it, the flicker of hurt behind his eyes, and decide not to press. You move on, gently steering the conversation.

“But speaking of her English,” you say, “she’s been a little... creative.”

Bob raises an eyebrow, some of the tension easing. “Nothing bad, I hope.”

“It’s…” You pause, glancing down at your folder, lips twitching at the memory. “She wrote me something.”

You pull out the letter and hand it to him, hoping the embarrassment isn’t showing on your face the way you think it is.

He looks at the title and turns a bright shade of red. At least you weren’t dying of embarrassment alone. You watch as he attempts to get words out, his eyes scanning the page. 

“I’ll definitely talk to her about this, this is…,” he says, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

***

Weeks pass, and you find yourself remembering other things on Erica’s “Date My Dad” list, like how he knows how to fix almost anything or how he’s really smart or your personal favourite, how he’s the best hugger on planet earth. 

The mischievous thought of playing like a six-year-old keeps popping into your head, but you can’t give in just yet. You need to focus on yourself.

To do this, you sign up for a Saturday pottery class on a whim; something about the idea of sinking your hands into clay felt like the right kind of mess to make.

You’re halfway through shaping what might eventually resemble a mug when you hear the instructor greet someone behind you.

“Welcome! Just grab an apron and find a wheel.”

You glance up.

It’s him.

Hair a little tousled, that same warm smile, only this time, it’s aimed right at you.

“Oh,” he says, clearly caught off guard. “Hi.”

“Bob?” 

This was a very welcome surprise. You’d gotten used to only seeing him for pickup, just a few seconds here and there, maybe a few minutes to talk if Erica was still playing, but now… he’s here, in person, fully present.

He looks good. Too good. How the hell are you supposed to focus on pottery when there’s a tall, confident, slightly dishevelled hot single dad sitting right next to you? Hot single dads might just be dangerous for your heart.

“My therapist says I should do things. Outside of work and Erica, y’know.”

“Bob time.”

You internally cringe as soon as it leaves your mouth, a “what the fuck is wrong with you?” ringing in your head but he just smiles, calm and warm. You almost wish you could take a photograph of him that you can whip out whenever you're feeling anxious.

“Yeah, Bob time,” he says with a chuckle.

You linger a moment, then decide to leave him to his Bob time. Though that doesn’t last long. Your own creative attempts are quickly spiralling into disaster after disaster. Pottery seems to be fighting you, and it’s winning.

“I feel like I’m completely fucking this up,” you say with a laugh, staring down at your very unfortunate attempt at a bowl. It’s lopsided, sagging, more like a sad monster than anything else.

Bob looks over, biting back a smile. “That’s the beauty of pottery,” he says. “You can always mess it up... and start again.”

He stands, brushing clay off his hands, and walks around to look at it properly.  For a moment, he just watches as you try to reshape the clay.

Then, a soft chuckle. “Oh, I see what the problem is…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“May I?”

He reaches forward, his hands sliding over yours. “You need to centre it,” he murmurs. “Slow down. Feel it.”

And just like that, you're moulding the clay together, his hands covering yours, fingers moving in sync. It should feel instructional. It doesn’t.

It feels intimate. Almost too intimate.

He’s so close, the soft heat of his hands melting against your own. The way his thumbs press lightly over your knuckles makes your chest flutter, your skin burn. You should pull away. You’re both in your own little corner, the sound of spinning wheels and soft chatter from the other students drifting around you like background noise. The instructor makes their rounds somewhere across the room, but here, it feels quiet. Private.

But you don’t move.

“See? That looks a lot better,” Bob murmurs, still gently guiding your hands along the wet clay.

You turn to him.

His voice, his face, too close. Your breath catches. You can see every fleck of colour in his eyes, the beautiful storm of grey and blue. The comfort it brings you is completely irrational, but it’s there all the same, anchoring you in a moment you didn’t expect to mean anything, until it suddenly does.

He looks at you, too and doesn’t look away. Both of you were suspended in the moment and wanted nothing more than to live in it.

His gaze drops to your mouth for just a fraction of a second, and the whole world tilts.

You should say something clever. Or safe. Something that doesn't feel like falling.

But all you manage is a whisper. “Bob…”

He blinks, as if waking from the same daze, but he doesn’t let go. “Yeah?”

“You’ve got clay on your cheek.”

Bob lets out a soft laugh, the kind you want to record and play again on repeat. It rolls through you and settles in your brain, creating a little nest there. You might just be hearing his laugh in your dreams tonight.

Everything feels a little lighter as he pulls away, retreating to his own wheel with a crooked smile. Though you had to admit, you missed it. His body against yours, his hands guiding you. You could get addicted to that feeling. 

He grabs a cloth from the side of the table, glancing at you as he awkwardly dabs at his face. “Did I get it?”

“Perfect.”

You try to focus back on your own project, but your hands are still warm where his had been. And when you glance up a minute later, he's already watching you, like maybe he felt it too.

***

This was a bad idea. You knew it as soon as you agreed to come over but…. You and Bob had now been attending the pottery class for a few weeks. Comfortable weeks, where he learnt a little too much about your life. There was just something about him that made you want to share, and that was hard to come by in your experience.

So when he started lamenting over the bake sale he’d been roped into participating in at the PTA meeting, you practically leapt at the opportunity.

“Are you sure? I wouldn't want to—” he started. In the short time you've known him, you knew he could downplay any and everything. 

“Nonsense. I'm a master baker.”

Now you were in his cosy apartment, standing tall in his kitchen, equipped with a whisk and a very stylish apron, if you do say so yourself.

“Are you good at baking?” you ask, a little worriedly. The way he's been scrolling through his phone for recipes for the past five minutes with a dead look in his eyes screamed no.

“Well…no. But I just want to make a good impression for Erica. Can’t have people thinking her dad’s a recluse…even though I kind of am.”

You chuckle and nudge him lightly, “I think it’s sweet.”

“So what are we making?” you ask, rolling up your sleeves.

“Not a clue. Cupcakes?” Bob suggests with a hopeful shrug as he waves his phone at you.

You squint, eyeing the chaos of ingredients on the counter. Cupcakes were cute in theory, but actually making them look appetising? That might be a stretch.

“Since you're a beginner baker, let's stick with tray bakes. Brownies, blondies, maybe some cookie bars. All the good stuff. Easy to make, hard to mess up, and you can churn out a ton.”

Bob nods, looking impressed. “This is the sage advice I need as a parent. Low effort, high sugar, maximum praise.”

You laugh, already reaching for the mixing bowl. “Exactly. It's all about playing the game smart.”

Bob lines up the ingredients and tools as per your instructions.

You’re like a drill sergeant, meticulous in your precision and measuring, barking gentle orders as if the fate of the world depends on the perfect ratio of sugar to butter.

Bob smirks at your overly precise flour sifting. “What’s the point of all this shaking? Just dump it in.”

“One of us is a master baker and the other is not.”

“I'm just saying, you should dump it in.”

You arch an eyebrow and sigh. “Fine. I’ll dump it.”

He doesn’t have time to duck before a cloud of flour is dusted over his face.

“How’s that?” you grin, brandishing the measuring cup like a weapon.

Bob shows no mercy, grabbing a fistful of flour and launching it straight at you, but it was worth it to see him smile like that.

You both exchange a look that says this means war.

“Bob!” you sputter, but all you receive in return is a mouthful of flour that you’ll be coughing up for days.

Calling a truce, you look around at the mess. If anyone walked in, it would look like you’d been snowed on indoors.

“Sorry, we fucked up your kitchen,” you huff, trying to shake some excess flour out of his hair.

“It's looked worse. I have a six-year-old, remember?”

***

Against all odds, you manage to get the tray bakes in the oven without any further incident… if you don’t count Bob spilling half a bag of sugar across the counter, or you accidentally coating the floor (and his socks) in cocoa powder.

You survived and see now on the couch in Bob's clothes that he lent you. The shirt you were wearing was decimated by flour, so you graciously accepted it. Plus, his sweater was quite comfy and very Bob, the kind of soft, well-worn knit that had clearly seen better days. You can see where he’s tugged at the collar a time or two, maybe out of stress or habit. The soft, warm smell of him over the detergent lets you know he's worn it recently. If you weren't careful, you'd melt into it and never take it off.

But as you looked around his home, you noticed… no wedding photos, but there was one family portrait of Bob, Erica and what you presumed was Erica's mother on the mantle.

Looking down at the hot chocolate, gripping it in your hands, the heat seeping into your fingertips, you finally ask what you’ve been dying to.

“Can I ask about Erica’s mom? I don’t wanna overstep or anything, I just…”

“No, it’s alright.”

He takes a breath. “We met at NA. She was the most magnetic person I’d ever met. She was so smart and sharp, and she never shied away from the hard questions. Always had a new obsession she wanted to share with me. We got together quickly, and before we knew it… she was pregnant.”

Sitting on his couch, you nurse the mug of tea he handed you earlier, legs tucked up. The light is low, just the floor lamp humming in the corner. He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze distant.

“We weren’t ready to be parents when we had her…” he says finally, “And she struggled a lot. We were both estranged from our families, so it was just us with no one else to lean on.”

You nod, letting him take his time. 

“After she passed two years ago, it felt like I’d lost everything. Erica didn’t have long enough with her, and every memory felt like it was slipping through my fingers. This year I just… had to get out of Florida. Everything reminded me of her. Her favourite coffee spots, the park she'd always stop by even if she had some place to be, it just…” He trails off, then sighs, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. “It brought up all sorts of bad things for me.”

You don’t ask what. You don’t need to. There’s something about the way he says it that tells you enough.

“I knew I couldn't be the father Erica deserves if we stayed,” he says. 

There’s a beat. He looks over at you, eyes tired but steady.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he admits. “Still don’t, half the time. But I knew I had to give Erica the love that her mother wanted so desperately to give her. And I knew I had to be better than what I came from.”

Your throat tightens a little, unexpectedly. You shift your mug, just to do something with your hands.

“You are,” you say softly. “Better.”

He gives you a small, almost startled smile, like he’s not used to hearing it.

And then, quietly, “Thanks for seeing her. Like, really seeing her.”

You glance over at him. “She makes it pretty easy.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She’s scary smart.”

“She made a list,” you remind him dryly. “But it was a pretty good one…,” you muse before sipping on the hot chocolate he made for you.

“You think it was a good list?”

“Definitely. Kind, strong… what was the third one?”

“Best pancakes.”

You chuckle, unintentionally brushing shoulders with him. “How could I forget the pancakes?”

The smile lingers as you lean your head back on the couch, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He’s more relaxed now, hair falling into his eyes, leaning ever so slightly toward you instead of away. When he starts talking, you notice the way he gulps; you can tell it’s been on his mind for a while.

“You don’t have to at all, and I understand if you don’t want to and I …”

“Just ask the question.”

“Would you want to come with me to pick up Erica, then stay for dinner? Again, if you have plans already, I completely understand and…”

If he kept talking, he might run out of air and pass out.

“That sounds good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

***

The three of you now settle around the dinner table as you do the finishing touches, smoothing napkins and adjusting utensils. Erica keeps chattering about her gymnastics class.

“You should have seen it!” she exclaims, bouncing on her heels, her eyes wide with excitement.

“I bet it was amazing,” you say with a smile, guiding her gently to her seat before she attempts another cartwheel.

The kitchen door opens, and Bob emerges carrying plates, balanced like an experienced waiter.

“I know it’s not much, but…,” he says, as he places the plate in front of you. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint or look like he hadn’t tried.

“It’s perfect,” you say gently, your tone sincere and warm. You meet his eyes and smile. “Isn’t that right, Erica?”

She’s already halfway through the plate, tomato sauce splattered across her cheeks like war paint. “Sooo… delicious…” she mumbles between chews, nodding enthusiastically, her mouth still full.

And in that small, messy moment as Erica swings her feet beneath the chair, sauce on her nose, as Bob tries to wipe it off, it all feels a little bit like home.

After dinner, Bob is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cleaning the dishes. Erica waits until his back is turned before beckoning you aside.

“So…?”

You let out a long sigh, even though you already know where this is going. It wasn’t plausible. It couldn’t be. There was no way Bob felt the same way you did. It was a fantasy, nothing more, nothing less. You had to ignore the butterflies that filled your stomach when you saw him, ignore the way your mind wandered to the warmth of his laugh whenever you heard a joke you thought he might enjoy.

“You can’t make your dad date me,” you tell her.

“I can because he already likes you!” Erica declared with the boldness only a six-year-old could muster.

“That’s not—” you start, flustered.

“You and my dad sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S—”

“Erica,” you interrupt, giving her a playful but warning look, shaking your head slowly.

“…I-N-G,” she finishes anyway, tilting her head and grinning widely.

You crack a small smile despite yourself, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Go talk to him,” she calls over her shoulder before running off to sit in front of the TV.

Weighing your options, you decide to take the hint. Entering the kitchen, you see Bob looking unexpectedly domestic. Water splashing against his bare forearms, eyebrows knitted in concentration as he scrubs a particularly stubborn tomato stain from the counter.

“Hey,” you murmur, oh-so-nonchalantly, leaning against the fridge. This was definitely going well.

“You don’t need to keep me company,” he says without looking up.

You take a step closer.

“Well, maybe I want to. Did you think about that?”

One more step and you’re right next to him. He laughs lightly, a little breathless, and glances up at you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And why would you want that? Is my daughter interrogating you again?” he asks, a teasing glint in his eye.

“Only a little bit. It’s nothing I can’t handle,” you reply.

“But that doesn’t answer why you’re in here,” he says, setting his soapy sponge aside and drying his hands on a towel.

“Because… I want to talk to you,” you admit, letting the words hang in the warm kitchen air. It feels right… and before you can stop them, the words start flirting on their own, like they’ve been hypnotised by those blue eyes of his. “You’re kind and strong and make the best pancakes, and I… I like you.”

He doesn’t say a word, just looks at you with something you can’t quite describe.

“I don’t want to pressure you or make things weird, but I just had to let you know.”

You’ve done it. You’re ready to say your awkward, stumbling goodbyes, disappear out the door, and hide under a rock until the day you die. You turn on your foot, ready to leave, when his hand reaches out, stopping you.

“Bob?”

You pad back over to him, your footsteps soft on the wooden floor.

“Since the moment I met you, I knew there was something about you. You made me feel giddy even though we'd only spoken two words to each other. And I-I won’t lie, this is scary. Finding someone as amazing as you is one in a million, but…”

He takes your hands in his, fingers curling around yours, caressing them gently. “I like you too. And I want to give this a try.”

A beat passes, the world shrinking to just the two of you. Then, leaning in slowly, your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss. His hands cup your face, warm and secure against your cheeks as he kisses every thought out of your head.

You pull back from the kiss, feeling like you're on cloud 9, when a thought occurs to you.

“How are we going to tell Erica?”

“I have a feeling she already knows,” nodding to the Erica-shaped blob hunched over and eavesdropping by the door.

Main Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[wendichester]

Yoooooo!!! How are you you wonderful talented being? I hope everything’s alright with you!

Drink your water!

So… I was thinking… reader is this badass hunter and she’s been with the boys forever but she has a dark dirty secret that she hides from them.

She’s not only a cold hearted demon killer she is a knitter who knits jumpers and blankets and everything cozy and cute

How do you think Sam and Dean would react when they find out?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ stitches n salt rounds,

pairing. sam + dean winchester x reader ( f )

wordcount. 356 genre. fluffy fluff

warnings. mild language, long-time friendship with sam and dean, domestic hobby reveal, light teasing, found family vibes

You’ve got your motel room door cracked open, rain pattering against the window, and your latest… project in your lap. It’s almost done—chunky yarn in a warm mustard yellow, soft enough to make you want to curl up in it right now.

The boys are out grabbing food, and you’ve got a solid twenty minutes to yourself. Needles clicking softly, you’re halfway through a row when the door swings open.

“Hey, we—” Dean stops dead in the doorway, brown paper takeout bag in his hand.

Sam comes in right behind him, his gaze dropping to your lap. His eyebrows climb so high they might disappear into his hairline. “Are you… knitting?”

You freeze mid-stitch. “…No?”

Dean blinks at you. “Is that a sweater?”

“It’s a jumper,” you correct automatically—then curse under your breath, because dammit.

Sam’s lips twitch. “You knit?”

You put the needles down slowly, like you’re surrendering a weapon. “Okay, listen. This doesn’t leave this room, got it? I have a reputation. I’m the chick who took down a pack of ghouls in under an hour. I’m not about to be known as—”

“A cozy little grandma with murder skills?” Dean cuts in, smirking. “Sweetheart, this is gold.”

Sam picks up the half-finished sweater, turning it over in his hands like it’s some kind of museum artifact. “This is… actually really good.”

You grab it back. “Of course it is. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”

Dean’s grin widens. “So what, you kill a nest of vampires and then go home to… knit yourself a victory blanket?”

“Sometimes,” you mutter, glaring.

Sam chuckles. “Honestly? I think it’s great. And practical. You’ve got the whole winter gear thing covered.”

Dean drops into the chair across from you, eyeing the yarn like it might bite. “Next thing I know, you’ll be crocheting me socks.”

You smirk. “Keep talking, Winchester, and you’re getting a neon pink scarf for Christmas.”

Dean leans back, pretending to shudder. “Terrifying.”

Sam grins. “Terrifying and warm.”

And just like that, your dark, dirty secret is out—along with the fact that the Winchesters will never let you live it down.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[reysdriver]

Can we get the next the next part to Apple of my eye pls🙏🫶 live ur writing!!

You and Eddie go on another date, and things get pretty steamy in the backseat of his van — line cook!eddie x waitress!reader

Part 2 of the Apple Of My Eye series

warnings: 18+, Minors DNI - smut, making out, oral (female receiving), fingering, some dirty talk, public sex, almost getting caught, and some internalized purity culture (not religious per se, tho), lemme know if I missed anything

words: 5.3k

The instant you closed the door after coming back from Eddie’s trailer, you were pelted with questions from your roommates about the night. 

“How was your date?”

“Did you go back to his place?”

“We saw that little cheek kiss, did you do anything more than that?”

“Are you even the type to get comfortable like that on the first date?”

You didn’t want to answer their questions, for a couple reasons, actually. 

For one, you knew if you answered even one question, a dozen more would come. Two, you thought their questions were so immature. And three, you weren’t really sure where things were heading with Eddie, so you didn’t want to get ahead of yourself just yet. 

“I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.” You said, trying to display the least amount of emotions as possible. “Maybe.”

You ignored their protests as you walked over to your bedroom. They followed you, of course, unsatisfied with your response, but you didn’t care. 

“I’ve had a long night, and maybe more to come. I need my beauty sleep.” You proclaimed, slowly shutting the door between you and your friends. “Goodnight.”

Before they could argue even more, you shut and locked your bedroom door. Now you were free to emote how you really wanted. 

Truly, you had wanted to lay down and just giggle like a schoolgirl all night, and now you finally could. You hopped onto your bed and laid on your back, staring at the ceiling and replaying your date with Eddie. 

You recalled how sweet he had been the whole night—plus how sweet he had been earlier at work. How he cooked for you, despite hating cooking, especially when he’s not at work. And how he drove you home at the end of the night, then blushed adorably when you kissed him on the cheek against his car. 

The thoughts that you should have said something differently, or smiled more, or given him a proper kiss at the end of the night tried to make their way into your head, but you refused to let them in. The night went well, and you refused to let insecurity and regret ruin it for you. 

Instead, you just went about the rest of your night, thinking about how you were going to see Eddie tomorrow at work. 

✦✧✦✧✦

The next day at the diner, you had spent the first half of your shift waiting to see him. You kept an eye out, watching the front door, and listened for the sound of the back exit, just in case Eddie came through there like he sometimes does when he smokes before a shift.

“I’ve got your milkshakes here. One strawberry, one vanilla, and one chocolate.” You said cheerily to the customers. “Is there anything else I can get you?” 

They all shook their heads, diving into the shakes already, so you smiled and started to walk back to the kitchen. Before you could go too far, you heard the door open and the little bell chime, so you stopped and your head whipped over to the entrance. 

And this time, it was finally who you were waiting for. And you seemed to be the first person he noticed too, since his eyes were on you before he even opened the door. 

“Hey.” Eddie greeted, and it’s important to note that he’s barely ever said hello to coworkers when he’s gotten to work before. “How’s it going?”

“I’m good.” You said, slightly flustered. “How are you?”

“I’m alright. Especially because it seems your friends haven’t convinced you to run and hide from me.”

You and Eddie both started walking towards the kitchen, neither one of you in a particular rush to get there, though. 

“Should they convince me to run?” 

“Not unless they want to see you miss out on a great date this Sunday.” He smirked. “If we’re still on for then.”

You nodded. “Yeah, of course. I had a great time last night, and I’m looking forward to next time. Do you have something planned or do we have to figure that out?”

“What about the drive-in? I can pick you up after your shift, we can grab some dinner before we get there if we’re not feeling the greasy snack bar food.”

“Are you ever not feeling some greasy food?” You teased him. 

“Watch it.” He teased back. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about my eating habits.”

You giggled, and Eddie hid a proud smile as he walked into the break room. 

“That plan sounds good, though.” You told him. “I’m excited already.”

“It’s gonna be great.” He said, hanging up his leather jacket on the wall-mounted coat hook in the corner. 

You nodded and watched as he tied his apron around his waist. Then, when you realized you were staring at his arms while he fashioned the strings around himself, you looked up and smiled politely. 

“Well, I have some tables I gotta check on. But again, I had a lot of fun last night, and I bet the drive-in is gonna be just as great, even better maybe.”

Eddie smiled back at you, and you left the break room to get back to work, plus counting the hours until your shift ends on Sunday. 

✦✧✦✧✦

And finally, after two days of waiting, Sunday came. 

Before leaving for work in the morning, you made sure to tie your hair up nicely and you put on a little extra makeup, then spent the day checking to make sure you still looked cute despite running around taking waiting tables for a whole shift. 

As your shift was ending, you pocketed the last of your tips, then reminded Steve you wouldn’t need a ride home, and he just had to tease you about your date. 

You went to the bathroom and checked how you looked one last time before clocking out for the day. 

When you walked out to the parking lot, you saw that Eddie was already there and waiting outside his van on the passenger side. This being the man that hasn’t shown up on time for a shift since you and your friends started working there. 

“You’re early.” You said with a chuckle as you walked over to him. 

“What can I say?” He responded, opening the passenger door for you. “I just couldn’t wait to see you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to avoid grinning and hide just how flustered that comment really made you. Despite your efforts, you were sure Eddie could still tell how you were feeling. And honestly, that wasn’t really something you were embarrassed about. 

He opened the passenger door for you and closed it after you sat down—ever so chivalrous. Then he walked over and sat in the driver’s seat next to you, gazing at you for a second before starting the engine. 

“So, straight to the movie or do we want to stop and get dinner somewhere along the way?” Eddie asked. He had one hand on the wheel, and the other hanging out the window by his wrist, an odd habit from smoking in his car. 

“Dinner there.” You decided. “I’ve been craving a drive-in cheeseburger all day.”

Eddie chuckled lightly. “You spent all day at a diner and you couldn’t satisfy your craving for a cheeseburger?” 

“It wouldn’t have been as good as the drive-in one.” 

“No, the drive-in one’ll be double the price for a patty flipped by a fourteen year-old.” He joked, or half-joked.

“Actually, I was going to say the burger wouldn’t be the same if it wasn’t made by my favourite cook.” You said, looking over at him. Then a wave of insecurity crashed over you for reasons you couldn’t fully explain, and you felt the need to correct yourself. “But we can go find someplace cheaper if you want. Or I could pay for the food. I don’t mind at all.”

“Don’t worry about that stuff, I’ve got it.” Eddie replied calmly. “I didn’t spend anything on the last date, remember?”

You sighed. “Well, yeah, but—”

“Seriously, I’ve got it. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty.”

“Can I at least buy the popcorn?” You pleaded, your head slumped against the headrest. 

Stopped by the red light, he eyes you up and down, getting a gauge on how much you needed this. The answer: a lot. So he let you have it. He turned back to face the windshield and rolled his eyes amusedly at your stubbornness. 

“Alright.” He agreed. “You get the popcorn, I’ll take care of the rest. Sound good?”

You nodded happily, then turned to look forward again, satisfied with that compromise. It wasn’t at all a deal for Eddie, but you just wanted to do something nice and contribute something to your dates, especially if this was becoming a habit for you two. 

The rest of the ride was peaceful as you drove across town. You really couldn’t have anything other than a peaceful drive in a small town like Hawkins. Everything was quiet all the time. It was a little unsettling how settled everything was. 

You opened the window slightly to feel the summer breeze from your side of the van. On your right, the sun was setting, painting the sky with shades of pink and blue. On your left, Eddie. His hair was flowing softly in the wind and he kept stealing glances at you when he didn’t need to watch the road. 

You couldn’t decide which view you liked better.

When you arrived at the drive-in, Eddie reached out the window and handed some of those same dollar bills you had shared with him the other day over to the jaded booth attendant. 

The worker directed you forward, so Eddie thanked him and started driving onto the dirt path. The lot was less busy than it would have been on a Friday or Saturday, so Eddie pulled up to a spot, backwards, so you could watch the movie out the rear doors. It was closer to the side but still had a good view of the screen. 

Once you parked, Eddie turned off the car so you two could get out and go grab some food. 

“Got your wallet?” He teased as you stepped out of the van. “Can’t go to the movies without popcorn.”

You held up your purse as a response, then started walking towards the concession stand, which you could see barely had any line. 

“Still want a burger?” He asked near the counter, to which you nodded in response. 

Then you and Eddie approached the counter, meeting the blonde worker dressed in a work uniform made to look like she had just stepped out of the 1950s. 

“Can we get two cheeseburger combos, a large bucket of popcorn, and uh, one of those candy boxes?”

“Which candy?” The employee asked. 

Instead of answering her, Eddie turned to you and asked you to choose the treat. 

“I’ll go with Runts, please.” You told the employee. 

She reached down, grabbed the candy box, and placed it on the counter, right in front of you. She then punched the candy price into the register, and continued with the order. “And what drinks would you like?”

“I’ll take a Coke.” Eddie responded, already pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. 

“And I’ll have a Cherry Coke.”

The employee told you both the total, though it was more aimed at Eddie than you. Then, you hastily pulled out enough to cover the popcorn and handed it to the cashier before Eddie could pull a fast one on you and pay for the whole meal. 

Eddie looked at you as he pulled out his wallet and picked out the remaining amount of cash. 

“I’ll beat you to it next time.” Eddie challenged. 

In a way, it kind of tickled, how casually you and Eddie spoke about going on more dates. It was just natural. Of course you would be going on more dates after this. Why wouldn’t you?

You topped your burger with the condiments on the counter beside the cash, walked back to the van while an old clip of singing theatre snacks played on the screen ahead of you. 

As you got in the back of the van beside Eddie, you started to speak. “You know, if we keep going on dates, the rest of the diner is gonna find out sooner or later.” 

He thought about it for half a second, then shrugged and picked up his burger. “Let them. Don’t your friends, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, already know?”

“They know a little.” You said meekly. “Just that we hung out at your trailer before, and now we’re going out tonight. I haven’t told them much—y’know, since we all work together and stuff. No details. I didn’t know how okay you would be with it.” 

“You can tell them.” He nodded. “I mean, they’ll find out enough just by being so close to you. They’ll see me when I drop you off at your place later.”

“They mentioned something about going out tonight, so I don’t know if they’ll even be there when I get home.”

Eddie hummed in acknowledgement of what you said. You both knew the implications of what you had just told him, and how those implications were strengthened by you telling him in the first place, but neither of you chose to explore them just yet. 

Instead, you both took a bite of the burgers you’d been craving all day, and turned to face each other. 

“Living up to your dreams?” Eddie asked once he finished chewing. 

You nodded and gave him a thumbs up while you swallowed the bite. “It’s amazing.” You assured him. “Not as good as the ones you make at work, but still, it hits the spot.” 

Eddie smiled, then brought his attention back to his own meal. “I’m glad it satisfied your cravings, sweetheart.”

Once you finished the burgers and fries, Eddie turned to grab something from behind him. A brown grocery bag from Bradley’s, but obviously not containing groceries. 

“I brought some blankets and stuff, by the way.” He explained casually. “I figured we could lay one down, then keep one for in case it gets cold.”

You scooted to the corner so he could lay the thin blanket over the van’s floor. Then, he pulled out a small cushion that you remembered seeing on his recliner at home. 

“You can use it, y’know, if you want.”

You nodded and thanked him while you got yourselves situated so that you could see the screen comfortably. 

The popcorn bucket ended up in front of Eddie, and since you were sharing, it only made sense that you sat curled up against him, right? For easy reach of the popcorn. Nothing else, of course.

Eddie sat up, slightly slouched, and you leaned against his side, trying to be subtle but still close to him. If he noticed, he gave no real indication of it, which stung slightly but it wasn’t the end of the world. 

But then, as you sipped on your cherry drink and the theater etiquette reminder started to roll, Eddie wrapped an arm around you and subtly pulled you closer to him. 

Once the movie started, you offered him some of the candy, and you both began stealing glances at each other in the soft light of the evening. 

During a particularly slow scene in the movie, you could feel Eddie’s gaze on you. It wasn’t intense or predatory, no, it was just sweet. You could see it out of the corner of your eye and it just looked like he was mapping your face. 

Turning to him slowly, you commented on how he was looking at you. “You’re staring.”

“Can you blame me?” He asked. His voice was lower than usual as he murmured, and you had to admit that it turned you on. 

“You’re supposed to be watching the movie.”

“So are you.”

Despite your weak protest, neither of you stopped looking at each other. Slightly flustered under Eddie’s gaze, you felt your lips curl up in a smirk. 

He took that as his green light. He tilted your chin up and kissed you far more softly than you would ever expect from a guy like Eddie Munson. He rested his other hand on your hip, and you brought your hands up to his face. 

Eddie pulled away from your lips, and now you were both face to face. There wasn’t an ounce of nonchalance between the two of you. You were both grinning messes, happy to have finally kissed after obviously both wanting to for so long. 

“I was trying to do that last time.” He admitted. “Well, I’ve been wanting to kiss you for months, but I was really going to do it when we were watching the movie last week. That punk ass kid at the door ruined my shot.” 

Playing up your actions, you took a look outside the van, then turned back to look at Eddie and shrugged. “Well, I can’t see any punk kids looking for weed. Wanna keep going?”

Without a second thought, Eddie positioned the van’s back doors so they were just slightly ajar, and then he practically pounced on you. You let out a giggle, but that was quickly cut off by his lips on yours once again. 

He slotted one of his legs in between yours and used his opposite arm to keep himself propped up while he kissed you much more messily than just a couple seconds ago. 

Subtly, Eddie pulled over the pillow and placed it under your head to cushion you as he kissed you, maybe a bit too roughly for the back of his van. What a gentleman this foul-mouthed, drug-dealing line cook was. 

Eddie’s wild hair was falling down to the sides of your face, but you didn’t mind it one bit. It was soft against your skin, which was quite the contrast to how he was touching you.

The silver chain he wore from his wait was dangling down to your thighs, and you used it to pull him down even closer to you. He let you move him, malleable in your touch, and started to grind lightly against you.  

Then, he moved his mouth down to your jaw, and then your neck. You knew his kisses would likely leave faint marks once he was done, but you didn’t care in the least. 

Since you were aware of your surroundings, you really did try to keep quiet while Eddie kissed you. For the most part, you thought you were doing really well. That is, until Eddie found the perfect spot on your throat and you let out a moan without realizing it. 

Once it left your lips, you felt Eddie smiling against your throat, and your embarrassment diminished slightly because you knew he was proud of himself. 

He brought his rough hand down to your hips, under your work skirt and right by your ass, and kneaded the soft flesh there. His strong fingers toyed with the hem of your underwear. You didn’t stop him. In fact, you brought your hand to his after he pulled and teasingly snapped the elastic lining. 

Without a word, you helped him pull the fabric down, just slightly, and he seemed somewhat shocked. He lifted himself off you for a second, and you were honestly scared you had done something wrong. 

“Are you sure?” He asked genuinely, which you thought was sweet. ”We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want. I mean, I’m fine just making out. I know girls—” 

You cut him off, shaking your head. “No, I wanna go a little further.” You grinned, just thinking a thousand dirty thoughts at once. “Maybe we shouldn’t do everything right here, but we can still do some stuff. If you want that too.”

He nodded with wide eyes. The sounds of you and him breathing heavily, mixed with the movie’s score, was all that filled the van before he responded. “Yeah. Yeah, I want it too.”

“Good.” You grinned. 

And Eddie wasted no time bringing his mouth back to your neck as he hooked his fingers under the lace on the side of your panties. He pulled them down slowly, doing a fantastic job at building anticipation. 

“Wait!” You gasped as Eddie pulled the lavender thong to your knees, causing him to stop what he was doing. 

Now, he was the one worried that he had done something wrong. You saw the concern on his face and immediately rushed to explain yourself. 

“I just don’t want you to think I’m like a slut or anything.” You said quickly. 

Eddie looked at you, confused as to why you paused the moment to clarify something he already knew, and hadn’t doubted for a single second.

“I really like you, and that’s why I want this right now. But really, I’m not fast—” You stopped talking once you noticed the amused look spreading across Eddie’s face. “Why are you grinning like that?”

“Because, sweetheart, it took me almost a whole year to get a date with you. I don’t think you’re like that at all.”

“You didn’t ask me out until last week.” You countered, confused where he got his timeline from. 

“Yeah, but I’ve been laying on the charm since the day you started working at the diner.”

That was news to you. It shouldn’t have been, but it shocked you. Eddie hadn’t been subtle at all about it, and everyone at work told you that he was into you, but you never believed it until now. 

“Well, I didn’t know—”

“Exactly my point, baby.”

He looked at you like he proved his point—which he did, but you didn’t want to let him have that victory.

“Don’t make me regret saying yes.” You said, still grinning. With that, you pulled him lower and pressed your lips to his, and his hands quickly returned to your panties around your lower thighs. 

He pulled off the purple piece panties and grinned devilishly. 

“I’m keeping these. Souvenir.” He said, asking permission without really doing so. 

You laughed, which he took as a signal that you were okay with it. But instead of putting them in his back pocket like you had expected, he used the thong to tie his hair back, and then brought his full attention right back to you. 

He was so damn hot. It was impossible to understand how you managed to go almost a full year without making a move on him. 

“I’m gonna eat you out, okay, sweetheart?” 

The words made you go dumb, and all you could do was nod. How was he so forward now after flirting by making you fries and not yelling at you for a year?

He lowered himself down and brought his face between your legs. It really sunk in that Eddie Munson was about to eat your pussy in the backseat of his van at a drive-in theatre. Tentatively, though you really did want this, you spread your legs and pulled your skirt out of the way. 

“Don’t go all shy on me now.” Eddie told you softly. “You can tell me to stop or slow down whenever you need, but I think you’ll like this.”

Once again you nodded. You didn’t know what to say, but that was okay; even if you did have something to say, you weren’t sure you had enough air in your lungs to vocalize anything. 

Satisfied with that, Eddie pressed a long, soft kiss to your inner thigh, then moved his mouth to your core. He started with little kisses to your clit. Light, but so perfect. They had you breathing sharply, and Eddie had barely gotten started. 

Eddie was really trying not to get cocky, but it was hard when he had just begun eating you out and you were already bringing a hand up to grip his unruly hair. 

He continued what he was doing, but now he was starting to turn it up a notch. He started to lap at your pussy. If you hadn’t just had dinner with him, you would have assumed he hadn’t eaten anything in days. 

Oh, god, he was good at that. You kind of hoped his skills were just raw talent, and not lots of practice. It felt like a greedy thing to admit, but you wanted Eddie all to yourself, even though you two just started going out. 

But that was okay, because Eddie felt the exact same way. 

He did something, rolling his tongue across your clit in a new way, and it was magical. You let out the beginning of a moan, but quickly bit your lip to stop the rest from leaving you. 

Eddie heard what did come out though, and you could feel him smiling against you, proud of himself for your reaction. 

“You can make noise, y’know? You sound really pretty.” He told you, lifting his head from between your legs for a moment, a motion which you copied by propping yourself up on your forearms. 

“We’re in public! I don’t want all these strangers to hear me.”

“Aw, here I was thinking I was doing a bad job.” He teased. “Turns out you just wanted to keep those pretty sounds for my ears only.”

You shook your head and replied almost breathlessly. “You definitely weren’t doing a bad job.”

Eddie looked flattered, but still cool as ever. It was the same expression he had when you complimented his cooking or made a comment about a new tattoo he got. 

“I can do an even better job if I use my fingers too.”

It wasn’t a brag. It was him asking for permission. And of course, you were going to give it to him.

“Yeah?” You asked, playing coy. 

He nodded. “Wanna lay back again for me so I can show you?”

“Okay.” You whispered, then you did as he asked and rested your head down on the van floor with your hair splayed and making a halo around you on the blanket. 

He brought his mouth down to your aching cunt once again, doing the exact same tongue trick that nearly killed you a minute again. Despite trying hard to stay quiet, squeaks and small moans escaped your lips. 

And just when you thought it couldn’t feel  any better, Eddie brought his fingers into the equation. 

He started with light touches, just grazing your slit as he continued to kiss your clit like it was the only thing he ever wanted. Then, he took one of his thick fingers and slid it into you. 

Without realizing what you were doing, you let out an almost pornographic moan and reached out to grab Eddie’s hair to ground yourself. You may have been a little too loud and pulled his curls a little too roughly, but he didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

Eddie stroked that finger inside of you like he was trying to memorize every bit of you. It was perfect, and you weren’t sure how much longer you would last. He fit another finger in, barely breaking his rhythm, either with his mouth or his hands. 

He just kept going, and the pressure inside was building up. You were getting closer to finishing, and both you and Eddie could feel it. 

“Oh, fuck. Right there, Eddie.” You said in a volume barely above a whisper. Eddie still heard it loud and clear. “Just like that.”

And he did exactly as you told him to. He kept going, lapping and stroking in the exact way you’ve seemed to like so far. 

Once you reached your limit, your back arched and you tried your hardest to stifle the cry that left your lips. You weren’t sure how well it worked, since you were too overcome with pleasure to notice anything else. 

When you laid back flat on the blanket, attempting to catch your breath again, Eddie reluctantly pulled himself away from you.

He laid down next to you, carefully observing the way you were breathing. The way your eyes rested closed, how your chest was rising and falling with each breath you took. Eddie quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before pressing his lips to your cheek. 

“How was it?” 

You opened your eyes and let out a breathless laugh at the question. A couple minutes ago, he was Mr. Confidence. Now, he was asking for your approval of his oral sex skills. 

“Really good.” You answered honestly. “I don’t even want to know where you learned to do all of that.”

You turned to face him as he responded. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

You laughed once more, then pulled him in and kissed him again, immediately tasting yourself on his mouth. He hummed against your mouth in surprise and pulled you on top of him. 

The two of you shared a giddy kiss, smiling against each other’s lips. You only smiled more when you thought about the fact that no one would ever believe you if you were to describe this scene. Eddie Munson, the grumpiest employee Benny’s Diner has ever seen, grinning against your lips while laying on a blanket in the back of his van at the drive-in. 

Your hands found his hair once again, and you toyed at the purple pair of panties still holding it together. 

“Am I gonna get these back?” 

Eddie shook his head. “I told you, they’re mine now, sweetheart.”

"I think I made a mess on your blanket."

"That's okay. It's fuckin' hot."

Then you looked down at the bulge in his jeans, and he followed your gaze. His baggy jeans were now tight and strained in the front, and you wanted to help him out with that not-so-little issue. 

“Want me to do something to fix that?” 

Once again, he shook his head. He then pulled you down back to the position you were both in before you had all these questions. 

“Not yet. I just wanna hold you like this for a little bit longer, it’s nice.” 

And you weren’t going to argue with him. You let him pull you into another kiss, enjoying the shitty movie adding background noise to your makeout. 

The moment was sweet, and you almost couldn’t believe it was really happening. But of course, it was too good to be true. 

There was a quick knock on the wall of Eddie’s van, which scared you out of Eddie’s arms, and you both sat up instantly, throwing the second blanket over your laps. The back door to Eddie’s van was practically flung open, and you immediately recognized who had just interrupted your moment. 

“We didn’t know you guys were here too!” Steve said happily. “We were just walking to the snack bar and saw your van!”

Steve was your best friend—tied for first place, of course—but you were not very appreciative of him right now. You waved and threw him a lazy smile, but you didn’t really have much to say.

Robin had much better situational awareness, and she clearly knew that she and Steve had just interrupted something. She shot you a knowing look, then tried to pull your other roommate away from the van. 

“Alright, c’mon, I want a candy bar.” Robin said, grabbing Steve’s wrist. 

He didn’t acknowledge her words at all, much to everyone’s annoyance. But it seemed like he got the hint.  

“Well, I’ll let you kids get back to watching the movie.” He pointed to you for the next part. “And we’ll see you at home later tonight. Or maybe we won’t! That’s okay, we won’t judge.”

“Bye, Steve.” You said slightly passive aggressively.

“See ya, Harrington.” Eddie added, and your two friends kept on walking to the snack bar like they had wanted. 

“Nosy.” Eddie commented to you once they were out of earshot. 

You laughed, and pressed a quick kiss to his jaw. “Yeah, but you get used to them.”

[pipluppini]

I’ve been yapping a lot (expect more) but I think about the line often

Ik he’s like written as a joke character </3 but still this one line is just kinda;;;

Like most of the house already thinks his cool rapping is annoying or just not into it but it’s his one and only passion </3 and he acts so big and mighty with his Lil’ Crapper act but to think he actually knows no one like it??? The canonical fact that most of the house have never heard him properly speak implying never really having a proper conversation with him

Or his whole route being wanting to find someone who can be on his level which yeah looks like him just being annoying butBUT

He just wants someone who will actually like him for him coz he knows the rest of the house dgaf and maybe it hurts him so he has this big act of being this annoying white guy to kinda play on that image he knows ppl already see him as coz why the hell not

Like he’s the type of guy who wants to see how much he can push others, see what others are willing to handle, how much they can put up with him and when he sees they can’t he backs off and claims their not worthy of his presence or just continues to be just annoying

But in reality it’s coz he doesn’t want to get beaten down so fast. If you don’t like him? Fine, okay he gets the message and he doesn’t need to know more. Spare him.

He’s not much without his cool rapping and he doesn’t need people reminding him of that. Of what he actually is.

Which makes his ending hurt so much more </3

Like now he’s an accountant. He doesn’t have his passions to fall back on when he talked so big about it. Maybe everyone was right about him the whole time and he was the fool the entire time. He thought he was being smart by playing on what everyone thinks coz it’d pay off eventually only for it not too. How humiliating.

I sometimes think I write him too mellow when I write post!realization but ofc he’s mellow!! He’s not this big guy anymore. Lil’ Crapper is not welcomed in the human world and he knows that. He knows

[burreauxs]

‘tis the damn season | joe burrow

⤷ no matter how hard you try to move on, it always leads back to him in your hometown. so you’ll let him call you babe, even if only for a weekend.

pairing: joe burrow x fem!reader

word count: 6.3k

a/n: figured i’d try my hand at this writing thing one last time lol (iykyk). i’ve had this written for a while but never really had any courage to post it until now, also i just rewrote the ending last night so please excuse any inconsistencies. sorry if it sucks lmao i’m a little rusty, i hope you enjoy nonetheless :) happy reading <3

warnings: angst, cursing, minor allusions to sex, reader is down bad (are we shocked) i think that’s pretty much it…… no happy ending but i’m open to a part 2 where they possibly get freaky if you want 🤫

Winter in Athens is different.

Different than anywhere else. You’ve lived in cities where the season comes sharp and biting, where it feels like the cold is trying to chase you off the sidewalks.

But winter in Athens is quieter.

Softer.

It comes back like it’s been here all along and just decided to show itself again.

The streets are more still than you remember, blanketed in white, the concrete sidewalks slick from ice. It smells like pine and wood, like winter in a way you never could explain to people who didn’t grow up here.

The drive back home always feels the same, like muscle memory you don’t even have to think about. You spend the 5 hour drive listening to an old playlist you curated a few months ago, humming and drumming your fingers against the steering wheel to the songs that play one after the other.

The last time you were back home feels as if it was a decade ago, only it was just last Christmas. It was a week long visit that felt more like an obligation than a holiday. You’d spent most of it answering the same questions from family who swear they only had good intentions.

How’s work going?

Planning on moving back home?

Are you seeing anyone? That one in particular made your heart skip.

You avoided the places that made your chest feel too tight. You hadn’t driven past your old high school. You’d stayed away from the football field. Told yourself there was no reason to linger downtown.

Convinced yourself that it was too cold to leave the house, even though you knew the real reason was that some part of you was afraid of who you might run into. You left before the holiday was even over, with that strange ache you only get when you’re standing in the middle of home.

The landscape shifts when you finally arrive, the road narrowing. The “Welcome to Athens” sign flashes as you whip past it, its green paint faded and chipped.

Mere minutes later, you near the high school football field where the lights used to shine so bright on Friday nights you could see them from miles away. You slow down instinctively and for some reason, something in you decides to pull into the parking lot.

Staring at it from the inside your car feels like a crime. So much so, that you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn off the ignition to your car.

The moment you step out, a rush of cold air wraps around you, biting at your nose and the tips of your ears, making you shiver and pull your coat tighter around your frame.

You lock your car and shove the keys deep into your pocket, tucking your chin against the wind as you cross the lot toward the field. Snow crunches under your boots, each step echoing in the stillness. The gate gives a faint rattle when you push it open, and you follow the narrow path to the bleachers, your hands stuffed deep in your coat.

The bleachers look smaller now. The scoreboard’s been replaced with a newer, more modern one, but the ghosts of your past memories live here anyway. You see them whether you want to or not; him on the field, you on the sideline, the whole town pressed up against the fence like nothing else in the world mattered.

Climbing the cold metal steps feels automatic, and when you reach the top, you settle into the same spot you always used to sit at. The aluminum seat is freezing even through the thick of your jeans, and you pull your coat tighter around you. From here, you can see the entirety of the field, patches of green turf peeking out against the snow along the sidelines.

It’s quiet.

Until you close your eyes, and the image of him running drills and throwing perfect spirals floods your brain. You remember how his eyes used to scan the stands until they spotted yours within the distance, you remember how he used to flash you that sweet, familiar smile of his through the bars of his helmet.

You keep your eyes closed for a moment, breathing in the stillness around you, letting the memories settle without forcing them. The cold air presses against your cheeks, the quiet of the empty field wrapping around you like it always has.

When you eventually open your eyes, the bleachers are still empty, the air around you hushed, and the memory lingers only as a faint echo.

You push yourself up and stand, brushing off your jeans and taking one last slow look around the field. You linger for a heartbeat longer, letting the quiet sink in, before sucking in a deep breath and walking down each bleacher, turning back toward the parking lot.

Step after step, you walk away. By the time you reach the car, the echoes of the past have faded just enough for you to slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, leaving both the field and those memories behind.

Your childhood home looks just how it did the last time you were here. The brick exterior is warm in contrast against the dull winter sky, and the Christmas wreath your mom brings out the same time of year like clockwork is hung on the front door.

You shut off the ignition and linger for a second. Sighing softly, you step out of the car, the winter chill cutting at your cheeks as you grab your bag from the passenger seat. The snow shifts under your boots as you make your way up the short driveway, the familiar scent of pine and smoke drifting towards you from the chimney. You pause for a moment at the door, listening to the quiet of the neighborhood, then reach for the knob and step inside.

The door is unlocked, and the moment you push it open noise floods your ears. The clatter of dishes, laughter bouncing off the walls, the hum of a TV somewhere in the background. You barely set your bag on the ground before your mom is rushing towards you, grabbing your face in her hands and greeting you with a bit too much enthusiasm for your tired self.

“Hi, sweetie!” she says, her voice bright over the hum of conversation. “How was the drive? Did you hit a lot of traffic?”

The warmth of the house hits you, almost too sudden after the chill of the winter air. You shrug and hug her softly, “It was alright,” you reply back after pulling away. “I left early this morning, so it wasn’t too bad.”

You begin to shrug off your coat, your fingers fumbling with the zipper as you make small talk with your mom. “How’s everything been at work? You’ve been okay?” she asks, her voice warm and easy. You give short, distracted answers, half-listening, when a voice calls out from the living room.

It comes from just beyond the living room, and a bright smile immediately spreads across her face when she sees you. You plaster a polite one on yours, your nerves running wild as you step forward.

Robin.

She’s still the same; welcoming and warm, and she steps toward you with open arms. “Honey, oh my goodness, it’s so good to see you!” she says, hugging you firmly.

You hug her back, careful not to stumble over your words. “It’s good to see you too, Robin. I… I had no idea you’d be here.”

She smiles at you, easy and effortless, and for a moment, all you can see is him. It’s perplexing how quickly your mind jumps there, how automatic it feels. “Yeah, neither did I!” she says, laughing softly. “Your mom called me a couple days ago, said it’d be nice for all of us to get together before Christmas, we all missed you!”

You nod, still caught in a weird, unfamiliar edge. “Oh… that’s nice,” you say, forcing the words out smoothly, hoping she can’t notice how her presence made your head do a fucking three-sixty.

Robin doesn’t skip a beat. She continues talking, filling the space with easy conversation on updates about people in the town; who’s moved where, who’s doing what, also while asking you questions about what you’ve been up to since the last time you’ve seen her.

She’s warm and inviting, the kind of person who makes a conversation feel like comfortable, and not as if it were an obligation. You answer her questions with a smile, laugh at moments when needed, but it’s as if someone has tied a string to your brain and is pulling at your thoughts. Your mind doesn’t stop drifting toward him, toward the memory of him.

Shortly, your mom’s voice calls for Robin from the kitchen. She looks back, brushing one of her hands along your arm in comfort. “I’ll be right back sweetie, you should go catch up with everyone in there!” she says, her tone soft, almost gentle, as if she knows the cause of your distraction.

And just like that she’s gone, bounding toward the kitchen to join your mom for whatever she called her for. You take a deep breath and walk cautiously toward the living room, and your chest strains as you pause at the entrance; your eyes begin doing a preliminary scan.

Only to be hit with the fact that he’s not here.

What the fuck?

You aren’t sure what to feel. Relief? Disappointment?

Part of you is glad he isn’t, glad you can breathe and not stumble over yourself, to not have your heart hammer against your ribs the second you see him. But another part of you - a part you didn’t even realize was still there wishes he were here. You can picture seeing him, sitting there laughing and deep in conversation with one of your cousins. The way he always had a way of taking up more space than anyone else, in a way that would never fail to make your body warm and your blood run hot. The way your heart always knew it wanted him before your brain could catch up.

And then you think about it, really think about it, and you know deep inside if he were here, you’d be a stuttering mess the second your eyes met his. Your hands would be restless, your words would get stuck in the back of your throat, and that calm, collected, confident version of yourself you try to carry everywhere would dissipate in the blink of an eye.

You’d be seventeen all over again, willing yourself to stay composed around Joe Burrow, the boy you’d used to dream of calling yours.

You’d be in your early twenties all over again, back home for the holidays as per usual, all while falling into the same trajectory you always did. The way it used to be; spending the entirety of your stay wrapped up in him, the feeling of falling in love with him hitting you like a punch to the gut; knowing deep in the back of your head the thought of the two of you being together could never be possible.

Every laugh, every touch, every moment together pulling you deeper into him, only to be hit with a revelation months later when Joe introduced you to his girlfriend. He’d called you his “best friend”, and it felt like a slap in the face. Like it��s normal to sleep with your best friend, to spend every waking moment together.

No. It was just some cruel reminder that it had never been meant to last. It would only be temporary.

You pull yourself out of your reverie, running a hand through your hair as you square your shoulders, forcing yourself to focus. On the people, the small familiar details of your childhood home, anything that will distract you from your racing mind.

But the thought of him possibly being just around the corner lingers persistent and incessant, and you can’t seem to shake it.

But you have to. So you plaster on a smile, and walk into the living room; greeting relatives and hugging family friends like your heart isn’t racing a million miles a minute. You sit for not even five minutes, make some small talk, only to excuse yourself under the guise of freshening up.

You grab your duffle from the entryway and head upstairs, making your way down the hall to your childhood bedroom.

The upstairs floor is dark from the lack of people around, but the sight of your bedroom door cracked open just slightly piques your interest. You find yourself walking toward it, your hand hesitating on the knob before you ease the door open carefully.

Your heart skips at the sight as your eyes go wide. A soft gasp leaves your lips before you can stop it, and he turns at the sound, shuffling from his spot at your vanity where he’d clearly been inspecting the little trinkets and photographs littered across its surface.

The two of you stare at each other for what feels like decades until he clears his throat and breaks the silence.

“Hey.”

Three letters. One syllable. A word so simple, yet it makes your heart flutter as if it was like he just declared his love for you.

You manage to pull yourself back down to earth and push away the sudden thoughts crowding your mind as you reply back.

“Hey, Joey.” You say with a nervous smile, your throat suddenly drier than a fucking desert. You watch as his eyes float around the expanse of your room, as if he’s searching for something before they finally fall on you.

“What are you doing here?” He asks as he begins walking towards you. His pace is slow but sure, and it feels as though he’s a hundred feet away until he suddenly isn’t.

He’s an arms length away from your body, and you can feel your cheeks heat up and your palms begin to sweat.

He’s always had this effect on you. Always knows what to do and exactly what to say to get your heart racing.

He’s not even doing anything, fucking relax, you tell yourself. But in two small steps, when he’s standing in front of you, your heart lurches into your throat and your veins begin to pulse rapidly. He towers over you with his enormous 6’4 frame, eyes fixed onto yours, sure and steady, and you can’t look away.

He’s close enough that you can smell the faint trace of his cologne. Clean, warm, and woody; a smell you’ve known for years and could still notice from a thousand miles away. The mint on his breath from the gum he’s chewing.

His hand raises, careful and intentional, as he pushes a loose strand of hair away from your face. The pads of his fingers; rough and calloused from years of exertion, yet still so soft and gentle, brush the side of your temple before tucking the strand behind your ear, his touch lingering a moment longer than it should.

Yet his palm stays there, holding the side of your face delicately, his thumb tracing a slow path along your jaw until it brushes the soft curve of your chin.

You’re stuck in place, breath stiff in your throat. Your every nerve is zeroed in on that one single touch that lit every part of your body on fire. As he leans his tall frame down, his hair falls slightly forward, the ends brushing your forehead, and the sheer intimacy of it; a gesture this simple, this natural, makes your chest ache in a way you wish it didn’t.

You look up at him, your eyes boring into his deep blue ones, and you lean further into his touch. His thumb doesn’t stop moving against your chin, and to be honest; you never want it to. As you continue to fall farther into him, nothing could’ve prepared you for the next words that were going to leave his mouth.

“You look good,” he says, his drawl slow and deep, every syllable heavy; like he’s trying to make sure you feel it.

Heat immediately floods your chest, crawling up your neck and painting your face crimson. You pull away before you can think anything more of it. You turn and face the wall behind you, sighing softly as you run a hand over your face, trying and failing to compose yourself, attempting to quiet the noise in your head. You suck in a sharp breath, lengthy and somewhat stable, forcing your heart to slow down before you look at him again.

When you eventually turn back around, he’s smiling broadly. His full thirty-two on display, sporting a cocky, boyish grin you know too well. The one that says he’s fully conscious of what he’s doing to you, and you can tell he’s reveling in every second of it.

You walk past him, your shoulder brushing his arm, and a rush of heat floods your body. Once you reach the chair in the corner of your room, you set your bag onto it and Joe speaks once more

“You didn’t answer my question.” He says and you can practically hear the smile in his voice. You pretend to busy yourself with your bag as you hum out to him; trying and failing to distract yourself.

He laughs deep at how obviously flustered you are and then repeats himself. “I asked you what you’re doing here.” He says and then proceeds to walk over to your vanity; fiddling with whatever you had placed on there the last time you were back home.

You turn to him confused at his ridiculous question. “What do you think I’m doing here? It’s my room, weirdo.” You say as you blink and snatch whatever he took from the vanity out his hand.

He huffs out a small laugh. “Well, no shit. I meant what are you doing in Athens? I thought your mom said you wouldn’t be able to make it.”

You swallow as your gaze glides to the wall behind him before you can stop it, the picture frame hanging from it now seems so captivating. “Oh, um… I got a couple days off from work, and I didn’t wanna spend them alone, I guess. It was a last-minute thing.”

He hums in acknowledgment, the deep, familiar rumble unfurling a heat in your stomach. “So, how long are you staying?”

You clear your throat, running a quick hand through your hair and pushing it behind your ear in a futile effort to look calm. “Um… around a week. Not long.”

He nods once, then sidesteps you, heading for your bed as if he’s done it a million times before. He falls back onto it, and lies down without a care, arms flexing behind his head. The movement pulls at the fabric of his black long-sleeve, stretching tight over his huge biceps as he gets comfortable and you genuinely think your brain short circuits.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You inhale a breath sharply, and follow, walking over to sit on the other side of the bed. You drop yourself onto the edge of it with a soft thud, cautiously keeping a good distance between you and him, like it might stop your heart from beating furiously against your ribs. The mattress dips slightly where you sit, the old creak of the headboard loud in the quiet room. “What about you?” you ask, aiming to sound casual. “How long are you in town for?”

He stares at the ceiling for a moment too long. The silence between the two of you stretches for a while, and you’re about to ask again when he finally speaks.

“I don’t know yet. We probably won’t make the playoffs, so… it’s offseason, I guess.” He pauses for a few seconds before continuing, “Might spend a couple weeks here, who knows.” He raises his brows, almost as if he’s waiting for your reaction.

Your smile fades, shoulders slumping, as you immediately regret asking. “Fuck… I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t mean-“ you start and he cuts you short, smiling softly, as he shakes his head. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. Hopefully we get some better luck next season.”

Something in his tone is light, but there’s a connotation there that you can’t put your finger on. Sadness, maybe? Anger? Regret? He shrugs and then suddenly shifts, his body turning to the side as he props himself up onto one elbow, his gaze now fixed on you, a soft smile playing on his face.

“Why are you so far away?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a sort of weight to it. You immediately feel the warmth crawling up your neck. You shrug softly, pretending it’s nothing, mumbling something as a way to evade the question, your eyes moving to the far corner of the room.

“Come here,” he says, his voice sharp and certain as he adjusts his position on the bed.

“Joe, I don’t—” you start, though he doesn’t let you finish. His warm hand slides out, long fingers curling around your wrist, giving it a gentle tug. “Just come, bruh.” His smile deepens at the roll of your eyes.

You let a soft breath escape your lips but crawl toward him anyway, your frame collapsing into the spot beside him. The heat of his body radiates onto you immediately, and you fold your arms over your stomach as if that can hide you from it. You set your eyes on the ceiling, forcing yourself to breathe evenly as you feel Joe’s sharp gaze fixed on you.

He stares at you for a while, and it’s quiet in the room for a few minutes, the only sound being your joint breathing and the occasional shuffle from Joe. He then reaches out and pokes your cheek with his pointer finger; steady, yet playful, like he’s testing to see just how far he can push.

You push his hand away without looking at him, gaze still stuck on the ceiling. “Stop it, weirdo.” The words come out sharper than you planned, but your face is already warming, betraying you as it flushes your cheeks pink.

“When did you get so shy on me?” he asks, his voice soft but curious as he continues to stare at you, a fond smile spreading across his face.

You huff, “Shut up,” you fire back as you glare at him annoyed, trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“I’m deadass,” he says, watching your reaction like it’s a game. “You’re blushing. Blushing equals shy.”

“Fuck off.” You scoff and roll your eyes playfully as you poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue as a way to stop yourself from smiling.

You fall into an easy rhythm with him, going back and forth with the kind of banter and playful teasing that used to fill the silence between the two of you years ago. He tells you how he recently got into drinking matcha, you laugh when he swears his is better than any coffee shop in Cincinnati. You tease him about his buzzcut from earlier in the season, telling him he looked like he was going through a midlife crisis, and he doesn’t fail to mention how you did the same thing when you dyed your hair jet black after your parents said you couldn’t move out.

It’s comfortable. A little too comfortable.

Until it’s quiet.

Without warning, his hand moves from where it’s resting on his chest to your stomach. His fingers brush the small area of skin peeking out from between your shirt and the waistband of your jeans. His touch is featherlight, like he’s testing if he’s allowed and your breath catches. He takes your hand, lifting it gently, turning it over in his palm as if he’s studying it. His thumb traces over your knuckles, the faint scar near your pinky finger. He begins to twist and fiddle with the rings that adorn your hand and you let him, because even a touch this minuscule sets your body on fire.

A few minutes later, you turn your head toward him, brows furrowed in confusion but also intrigue. “What are you doing?”

His lips twitch into a sly smile. “I’m not doing anything.” He claims right before he drops his gaze to your lips and then back to your eyes, his tongue peeking out to wet his own.

“Joe. Yes you are.” You say with a soft smile, though your voice lacks the bite you want it to have. “You just did it.”

“So what?” His eyes are locked on yours now, steady, unblinking. Your heart rate increases by the second and you close your eyes for a moment before opening them. Against your better judgement, your hand that’s not enveloped by his reaches out to cup his face, your thumb brushing the skin of his cheek gently and Joe immediately melts into your touch. He buries his face deeper into your hand, his lips placing a soft, barely there kiss on your palm and your heart starts pounding as if it’s gearing up to jump out of your chest. When you pull your hand back he groans out in annoyance, trying to pull you closer to him but you freeze in place.

“You can’t do that.” You speak lowly, shutting your eyes as you try and steady your breathing.

“Why not?” He starts to shift, slow and deliberate, shuffling closer until your shoulders brush. Then his arm slides over, caging you in without quite touching you, his weight braced above you. He leans in so the tips of your noses are brushing against one another. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your face when he speaks. “Tell me why I can’t.” He says cockily, his lips faintly touching your own, so close yet so, so far.

You can’t speak, your mouth is open but nothing leaves it. All you can do is breathe heavily, tucking your face into Joe’s neck as you inhale his scent, you can practically hear his pulse picking up speed rapidly. His hands roam your clothed chest, pausing only to pull you out from the crook of his neck and hold your face in his big, warm hand. He shakes it gently but with intent, forcing you to look up at him. His gaze captivates you, deep and unrelenting, as he stares into your blown out eyes.

Slowly, a smirk spreads low across his face, the tip of his nose tracing a pathway starting from the side of your neck all the way to the shell of your ear. He stops just beneath your earlobe and places a soft kiss on your warm skin, and then whispers in your ear.

“You can’t tell me,” he starts, his voice low and bold, as he continues to kiss a trail down your neck. “You wanna know why?” He asks cockily and he pulls back to look you right in your eyes. You’re a mess underneath him, your resolve slipping farther away by the second. You whisper his name and then he cracks.

“You can’t tell me ‘cause you’ve been waiting for me to do it all year.” He says, his voice low and cocky, in the tone that has you falling apart beneath him. His thumb brushes along the expanse of your jaw, as if he’s trying to fathom the fact that he’s finally able to touch you again. His eyes, a darker shade of blue than they were before, sweep across the entirety of your face. His gaze almost possessive.

“You spend months trying to forget, trying to get over the last time it happened. You pretend you moved on. But the second you come back here, you remember.” He leans in so close that you can practically hear his pulse racing. His lips brush yours teasingly, and he pulls back slightly. ”You remember what it feels like, and you know deep down that I’m the only one who can give it to you.”

“Right, baby?”

And then he kisses you.

It’s been anticipated for so long, and when it finally happens you’re borderline ascending. His lips slot against yours hard enough that you gasp into his mouth, and that’s all the opening he needs. His tongue slides against yours, the taste of mint and something unmistakably him flooding your senses. It overwhelms you to the point where you can’t even think straight.

Your body responds before your brain can think, kissing him back ten times harder, your hands curling into the front of his shirt, desperately needing something to keep you grounded. His hands move up your sides, over the thin cotton of your shirt, warm and steady until they’re cradling your face. He tilts your head back just enough to kiss you deeper, and when his mouth leaves yours, it’s only to trail down your jaw, hot, open-mouthed kisses that find the curve of your neck.

A small whimper leaves your mouth and Joe almost collapses.

“I missed you, baby,” he mutters against your skin, the words making your heart flutter.

“Joey…” Your fingers find his hair without thinking, tangling into the familiar softness of his blonde curls. He hums at the way his name sounds leaving your mouth, his perfect lips dragging lower until they reach your collarbone. “I missed you so fuckin’ much.” His voice is low and rough; almost pained, and it stirs something deep in your chest you wish you could ignore.

You push at his shoulder lightly, enough to make him lift his head from your chest. He’s panting, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from your hands. His lips are red and swollen. “You really want this?” you ask, half teasing, half uncertain.

His brow furrows, his smile faltering just barely. “You don’t?”

“I mean, I do, but-”

He doesn’t let you finish, leaning in to catch your mouth with his again. His kisses are slower this time, lingering, like he’s trying to make them last. His mouth leaves yours to graze your neck once more.

“I haven’t seen you for a year, baby.” he says quietly, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away before he’s ready to let go.

“I know. I’m sorry.” Your words are soft, almost lost in the sound of your own heartbeat.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel him. His weight above you, the familiar heat of his skin through the fabric between you, the way his breath fans against your neck. It’s everything you wanted, everything you told yourself you wouldn’t let happen again.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression hard to understand. “Is it okay with you?”

You hesitate for a moment, because you know exactly what this is. You know how it ends. But right now in this moment, you don’t care. You push that reminder to the back of your mind and nod. “Yeah. You?” You say as you plaster on a soft smile.

You’d rather have him for a moment than not at all.

His shoulders relax, and he nods before he presses a kiss to your forehead. “It’s okay.”

And in that moment, you just have to accept it, the way you always have. That you’ll only have him during this season, here in your hometown. And when it ends, you’ll both go back to your separate worlds, carrying the ghost of tonight until the next time it inevitably happens again.

So you guess you could call it even.

[bettystonewell]

Man, Alex - those vows were beautiful. It’s almost like you’ve done this writing rodeo before lol 😘 what a lovely chapter/part - I was super excited when I saw - and a wedding… in your author notes ❤️❤️❤️

I don’t know if I’m more of a sucker for wedding or kid fics now 🧐 definitely a rom-com girlie it would seem ❤️

Didn’t take long for me to chuckle in this one

There was a reason women lived longer than men: a lack of dick-wielding bravado that stopped them from seeking medical treatment.

Yup!! Although I can’t talk 😂 my eyes…

The doctor explained what he already knew: that someone with this diagnosis had a survival rate measured in months, not years.

I do love that she gets to hear his diagnosis from a medical professional. I can see him potentially butchering all the medical terms with whatever he has told her so far along with down playing everything as we know.

We’re investigating a new form of treatment called hypofractionated proton beam therapy. It’s shown promising results.

Blown away once again by your terminology and explanations of medical treatments. Dare I ask the thought process behind this one? Whether you picked someone’s brain or did your research, you’ve done it again! I remember the details of Dean’s head injury in Smoke Eater all too well ❤️

(I actually stared typing Dean Smoke Eater in the search bar before I realised that wouldn’t work - I swear I’ve seen you use this one a lot)

First of all, it was marsala wine and creamy beige,” you said, leveling a finger at him. His smile grew. “Satin, of course. Matte invitations with a classy ribbon. And I’m sorry, but you can’t ever have enough flowers.”

Yaaaaassss! Details, details. Put him in his place. Marsala Wine is completely different to…. Honestly I don’t know lol - but I get it. I’m imagining a deep red with a hint of warmer undertones like Dean’s shirt above there.

Didn’t miss the throwback btw

a lacy marsala wine. Perfect for his imagination later.

😂- Mark’s a smart arse

She drank four cocktails before noon and washed it down with red velvet cake, all while complaining it was “too dry.”

Honestly, I don’t blame Rachel here 😂 I’d be the one drinking four cocktails in that scenario. Okay, no that’s an exaggeration, but I’d be taking advantage of the booze and the red velvet cake!

Did they get a cake for the wedding redo?? 😭

It was more than a morning sendoff. It was thank you. It was everything he couldn’t bring himself to say in the blistering light of summer.

The sweetest moment. I loved that you had him pull up and come over to her to do that. Bet they both needed it. EXCEPT - OMG - every time I see them parking the big black SUVs in the middle of parking lots, it pisses me off sooo much 😂 I keep thinking of the poor people they keep blocking in…

Neither of you noticed the silent click of a camera phone shutter.

EXCUSE ME? What??? Is it Valwell? I doubt you’ll tell me - spoilers - but, gosh I hope it’s not anything to do with Volcheck and the drama you keep hinting about - exciting - though I’m now worried and on alert

Mark paused. “Actually, I do.”

Noooooooo. No double meanings 😭

“Follow my advice, young padawan, and guarantee, you’ll get more downtown action.”

I love the whole conversation between them! That’s solid advice Finau 😂

So that very night, Sarah and the rest of your friends had been your witnesses when you chopped up your dream with garden sheers, then burned the remains in a charcoal barbeque pit along with Mark’s favorite boots (the foolish man left them in your car while you were in Venice).

Yeah - done blame her

Even if you weren’t going to have a real wedding, you still wanted to blow Mark’s mind (followed by the rest of him later).

He he he - I loved the friends nod too, but I decided to stick with highlighting this one 😘

The word was an acidic mantra carving through his mind. He felt like pounding his head against the wall until he broke through the plaster, until his skull cracked open and the rot came pouring out.

Blowing my mind again here Alex!

Can’t wait to see some more! I’m so interested to see where you’re taking us with this, especially as we get closer to the end of the series fic wise ❤️

A ONCE AND FUTURE THING

⋆˙⟡ Series Masterlist ⟡˙⋆

Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader

Summary: DA Valwell deals his first strike to try and disrupt Special Agent Blythe’s task force. When you find out that Mark is on the team, you can’t understand why he won’t prioritize his health, and the time he has left. The pressure of his decisions—and yours—continue to mount on your relationship. Will it deal the final blow?

AN: And we're back with 'Til When Do Us Part! Okay, I promised you guys some fluff. Now I’m here to deliver, before I break your hearts again later. 😘

Word Count: 7.4K

Tags/Warnings: [Set in 1x08 - bending time a little] 18+ only. Implied smut, medical angst (prognosis and cancer treatment), hurt/comfort, major fluff, and a wedding…

Posted on Patreon: 8/06/25

Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify

Now Playing: “And So It Goes” by Billy Joel (YT)

"But if my silence made you leave, then that would be my worst mistake. So I will share this room with you, and you can have this heart to break."

Dr. Indira Rashid was just what Mark needed. 

She was clear, concise, and didn’t try to bullshit him. But first, he had to go through his medical history and symptoms for the past year.

Some of them you knew: the headaches, his eyes being overly sensitive to the light, blurred vision, and occasionally forgetting things, like the word he wanted to say, or when you told him three times this appointment was at 7:15 a.m.

The doctor came into her office early for him thanks to Lisette; she and Indira were good friends. Once you mentioned that he was a police officer and a veteran, Indira made it a point to accommodate him. She listened intently while he explained what his doctor had recommended on treatment (or lack thereof), and what he was going through lately.

Some of his newer symptoms were a surprise to you.

“You’re blacking out?” you asked incredulously. “When?”

Mark’s lips pressed into a guilty line.

Your worry was overlayed by fear when you realized…if it didn’t happen at home, when he was with you, it had happened at work.

“It was quick,” he said. “Couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, otherwise you couldn’t be held responsible for what came out. There was a reason women lived longer than men: a lack of dick-wielding bravado that stopped them from seeking medical treatment.

Mark’s knee began an antsy bounce. Indira’s gaze flit perceptively between you and him, the room weighing with a tension that was liable to break through the linoleum.

“Those symptoms are consistent with a brain tumor,” Indira said. “I’m still waiting for the records from your previous doctor, but regardless, in order for me to confirm a glioblastoma, we’ll need to do some tests.”

“But I went through all that already. CT, MRI, the works,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but those scans are ten months old, right? We’ll need to redo them,” she said. “An MRI first, then a biopsy, depending on the results.”

Mark exhaled roughly in frustration. I don’t have fucking time for this was clear and sharp in his eyes, the words tucked just behind his teeth.

You tried to let go of your own upset, remembering that this wasn’t about you and everything he hadn’t told you. He was the one suffering.

“Mark,” you said gently, and with an imploring look.

Please, it said.

After a moment, he relented with a sigh. His shoulders loosened a fraction.

“Okay. What else?” he said.

You slipped your hand over his, swiping your thumb across his skin. He squeezed your hand back. The edge of your engagement ring caught his eye, reminding him why he was here.

The doctor explained what he already knew: that someone with this diagnosis had a survival rate measured in months, not years. Even with all his symptoms, she was frankly surprised that he was still as healthy and functional as he was, considering the stressful, active nature of his job, and the usual progression of the disease. He was strong enough to go through treatment, potentially. 

“What’s the typical treatment plan?” you asked.

“Well, the problem with this form of cancer is that once it penetrates the brain, it’s aggressive, pervasive, and difficult to remove entirely, as I’m sure your first doctor told you,” she said. “The first step is usually surgery, followed by radiation and chemo.”

Mark took this all in with a face of stone, but not a muscle in his body moved. It only became more rigid.

“Is it worth it?” he asked.

Indira’s face was kind, but again, no bullshit. “That depends on you. Some patients gain a year, maybe two years, after treatment. But it typically does recur.”

You looked away. You tried to hide the way your eyes burned with unshed tears, the way your lips trembled, but Mark slipped his hand out of yours so he could pull you in closer. So far, Indira hadn’t told him anything he hadn’t heard before or looked up himself. 

“However,” she said. “Here at UCLA, we’ve been in league with the Mayo Clinic on leading a new clinical study for glioblastoma multiforme patients. We’re investigating a new form of treatment called hypofractionated proton beam therapy. It’s shown promising results.”

You perked up immediately. “What’s that?” 

Indira explained it in simple terms. Combining advanced imaging technology and a contrast-enhanced MRI, the doctor would be able to pinpoint the most active and aggressive areas of the tumor. Those were the first regions that would be targeted with radiation. Not only was it a shorter treatment plan—one to two weeks instead of the average three to six—it would preserve more healthy brain tissue than traditional methods.  

The more she spoke, the harder Mark paid attention. He didn’t relax, not entirely, but he was listening. Her words managed to penetrate the echoes of his own raging screams, barely smothered by his force of will. 

By the end of it, you were swiping tears from your cheeks like they were just flecks of dust fallen on your skin.

“How soon can we get him into the study?” you asked. 

“Well, once we get through the initial scans, re-confirm the diagnosis and what stage the tumor may have advanced, we’ll see if he’s eligible for the study. If it all pans out, I’ll talk to my colleague and get the paperwork started,” Indira said. She looked to Mark. “But what would you like to do, Mark? How do you feel?”

She probably saw that he was reeling, needing a minute to process. You looked to him more patiently as well. You gave him the room to let him think, but you rubbed his thigh, back and forth, just reminding him you were there.

It was a support he still felt a bit guilty for, but couldn’t help but need.

“You said the results were promising. What does that actually look like?” he asked. 

She nodded. “Good question. Some patients had their prognosis doubled, or more. Six months to twelve. A year to over two years. One patient, a forty-five-year-old woman, has been cancer free for fifteen months—as of yet with no sign of recurrence.”

You and Mark shared a look. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. It was hope.

The car ride into Downtown was quiet. Mark’s road rage didn’t even stir when a sixteen-wheeler tried to cut him off. You turned to him and studied his profile, his dark brows furrowed while his eyes held a thousand unnamed thoughts.

“I got us a date at the courthouse,” you said. “This Thursday.”

That earned his attention. It took him a second, but his expression lightened enough to return your smile.

“Thursday? Afternoon, right?”

“5:00 p.m. was the latest they had.”

Mark glanced over at you, at your hands smoothing down the navy slacks you wore for work. Your ring shined proudly on your left hand. He reached over and caught your nervous habit, steadying you as well as himself when he took your hand.

“You sure you wanna do it this way, quick and dry at the courthouse?” he asked. “I remember the first go around, you damn near blew a fuse trying to decide between plum and lavender. Satin or linen tablecloths? Matte or glossy invitations? If there should be flowers on the table with the centerpieces, or just looped through the chairs in little doily patterns? God knows I couldn’t keep up.”

You were grinning hard before he even finished his mini rant.

“First of all, it was marsala wine and creamy beige,” you said, leveling a finger at him. His smile grew. “Satin, of course. Matte invitations with a classy ribbon. And I’m sorry, but you can’t ever have enough flowers.”

You sighed with a tinge of nostalgia and regret. That wedding was going to be beautiful. You really did put your heart and soul into the planning, especially because your sister was next to no help at all, and Mark had been too busy at work to give more than a cursory glance and a thumbs up at the options you’d tried to present him with. In the end, it was just easier to do it all yourself.

Sarah had been your right-hand woman, executing all your delegated requests like the perfect Maid of Honor she should’ve been. Instead, you’d felt obligated to give that role to Rachel, despite the fact that she didn’t do much of anything but criticize your choices. She certainly had fun at the tastings though. She drank four cocktails before noon and washed it down with red velvet cake, all while complaining it was “too dry.”

Your mom had been a big help though. She had fun making all one hundred and twenty wedding favors by hand.

But in the end, where had all your planning gotten you? Where had all those pretty things gone? In the trash, along with hundreds and thousands in deposits lost.

You shook your head at the memory. Mark noticed, because he always did. His lips quirked wryly as his hand returned to the wheel.

“Sorry. I uh, still feel bad for how all that shook out,” he said. “You had to deal with all that by yourself, beginning to end.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said tightly. “It’s just another reason I’m going to tell people I’m an only child from now on.”

Mark’s lips tugged upward. “You’re really never going to talk to Rachel again? Gonna make for some awkward Thanksgivings.”

“That bitch can get fucked,” you muttered, squeezing his hand reflexively. “Which I’m sure she has.”

He chuckled deeply and brought your hand to his lips for a kiss. For someone with such a big heart, you also had a razor-edged mouth, no goddamn inches given once someone crossed you. But Mark thought he saw genuine remorse in your sister that day. Give it a few years and some intense groveling, and you might come around to forgiving her.

“Anyway, back to the present,” you said. “Honestly, I’m okay with the courthouse. What you’re dealing with at work, and all the rest of it…I just don’t want this to stress us out. I don’t want to waste time, and I definitely don’t want anything else to stop us from getting married.”

Mark nodded, offering you a smile. “Okay, baby. Then we’ll make it happen.”

You let out an unsteady breath, but you smiled over at him.

“Do you want to invite anyone from PD? Or your team on the case?” you asked. By now he’d told you a bit about everyone he was working with on the task force.

He thought about it for a moment, but he shook his head.

“Ehh. I don’t know if we’re there yet, you know? We haven’t known each other that long.”

“What about Finau? You’ve known him for years.”

Mark tilted his head at the idea. Finau was a family man, married with kids. He would probably understand why Mark wanted to do this now without having to answer too many probing questions. And by now he’d gotten over that whole, I almost shot you in the face thing.

“Yeah, maybe,” Mark said.

“And…Amber? You guys seem to be friends,” you said, but there was a note in your voice that Mark didn’t miss. He eyed you knowingly.

“Colleagues,” he corrected. “We’ve been partnered up a few times on this case, but I told you, it’s no more than that. So you can unclench your teeth there, sweetheart.”

Your jaw ticked when you realized he was right. You forced yourself to relax, crossing your arms over your seatbelt. Your office building was coming into view as he pulled into the plaza.

“Does she know the truth about you?” you asked.

“She knows something’s off, but no. You’re the only one who knows.”

Well, besides your mom, but she wasn’t going to tell anyone, let alone anyone who mattered. It hadn’t been easy to break her heart with that news though. She’d spent over an hour crying while trying to bake him cookies to distract herself. He’d appreciated the cookies (snickerdoodle was Lisette’s specialty). But he hated himself for the tears.

Always the tears. 

“Mark,” you said, hesitating for just a second when he pulled to a stop in front of the federal building. “If you trust Amber or Finau, or even Blythe, you should tell them. Someone should have your back out there.”

Mark considered it, but he only nodded his response. You squeezed his arm before you grabbed up your purse and got out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tonight,” you said.

There was something about you leaving that made his chest tight. Anything could happen in the next eight to twelve hours. That was nothing new. But this time, it just hit him sideways. Any time he said goodbye to you could be his last.

"Hold up," he said.

He parked the Bronco where it sat and climbed out himself. Rounding the hood, he went over to you and brought you in by your shoulders. He claimed the opportunity of stealing a kiss, breathing in, lingering. Then he guided you into his arms.

It was more than a morning sendoff. It was thank you. It was everything he couldn’t bring himself to say in the blistering light of summer.

You hugged him back and savored the moment of grounding, the solidness of his body around yours, his natural scent mixing with aftershave, and a tap of the cologne you bought him last year for his birthday.

Neither of you noticed the silent click of a camera phone shutter.

Last week, Mark investigated the murder of four consulate security guards who got themselves blown up—in what he suspected was Vusovich’s home basement.

Which meant Belarusian ambassador, Consul General Astapov, knew more about Vusovich than his vehement denials to Blythe would suggest. So far Astapov had been…uncooperative. Blythe was still working on putting the pressure there from higher-ups.

But just a few days ago, Bell got them a lead that had Mark chomping at the bit to investigate: a truck parked just outside a federal building, tinted windows, no license plates, rewrapped with the U.S. Post Office blue and red emblem.

After it was cleared by the bomb squad, Mark took a look inside the truck and found it completely empty, save for a few cameras. It seemed to be Vusovich’s attempt at a dry run for his dirty bomb delivery.

So the team kept digging.

Today had Mark in the office after he dropped you off at work. He was continuing to look into Gallagher Freight, the company Vusovich had bought out and used to ferry his radioactive shipments. But again, these trucks could be rewrapped to look like any kind of shipment, from the U.S. postal service to a U-Haul, or even Roscoe’s chicken.

Bell and Shepherd were digging into VKN, the only known company they could tie Vusovich’s purchases to. It was Oliveras’s turn to grab lunch for the team. Mark put in his order for a spicy Italian sub (extra cheese), which left him and Finau sitting across from one another at their respective desks. They got to talking in between the mundane clicks of typing.

“Wait, what? You’re getting married?” Finau blinked like he was having a hard time matching Mark with the string of bullshit he just heard. “Like, again? To the same woman you left in the cold. You mean she actually took your ass back?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, but yeah. I happen to be very charming,” Mark said, his brows raised with offense taken.

Finau snorted. “And persuasive, clearly.”

He went back to the research on his screen. He was a good multitasker.

Mark smiled and held his hands up in a what the fuck gesture.

“Come on, man. No congratulations? No champagne? Not gonna offer me one of those cigars you brought to the PD Christmas party last year?”

Finau’s mouth twitched at begrudging amusement.

“Congratulations,” came his flat reply.

“Thank you,” Mark nodded, but his expression evened out into something more serious. “I didn’t actually…you know, step out. It didn’t go down like that.”

For the first time, Finau paused in what he was doing. Maybe he heard the honesty in the other man’s voice. He looked over at Mark, thawing out a little.

“So what happened?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated. But we’re making it work.”

Finau considered that with a slow nod of his head. “Well, all right. Good for you, Meach.”

He sounded sincere that time.

“I gotta give it to you. You had balls going after the captain’s daughter,” he added.

Mark’s grin returned with a vengeance. He remembered the day he met you all too well. He’d caught glimpses of you before, popping in and out of the precinct to visit your dad, but he genuinely hadn’t known who you were until after he’d already gotten his hands on one of your prized Victoria Secrets—a lacy marsala wine. Perfect for his imagination later.

He fucking missed that little number too. You’d worn it on his first date with you. That night, he was responsible for its demise. Call it a crime of passion.

“What can I say? Couldn’t fucking help myself,” Mark smirked. But his eyes gentled a touch. “She’s just…I never met anyone like her, you know?”

Finau caught that look, and he read through the bravado to something raw and real and unmistakable. 

“You sure you’re ready for what’s coming next?” Finau said.

Mark’s wistfulness fell back to hard reality. The amusement stamped right out of him.

Fuck no, Mark thought. His inner world had shadows encroaching on the corners when he thought about this morning’s appointment. More tests, more layers to the secrets he already had hidden, and probably a lot of hell on the horizon. 

But that wasn’t really the question Finau was asking.

“Yeah,” Mark shrugged. “She’s basically moved in. Can’t be much different than what we’re doing now.”

Finau just laughed, a low, long chuckle that shook his entire barrel chest. Mark shot him a look, mostly amused.

“All right, Barry White. I sense that mockery comes from experience.”

Finau arched a wry brow. “You wanna know the secret to a long and happy marriage?” 

Mark paused. “Actually, I do.”

Finau leaned in conspiringly.

“When you fuck up—and you will fuck up,” he said. Mark gave a wan smile.

“Oh, I’m familiar.”

“Own it. No bullshit. No excuses,” Finau said. “Don’t use flowers and shit to say you’re sorry. Give her those just because. Instead, make it up to her by doing the thing she’s been nagging you to do for weeks, but you thought you had better shit to do. Snake the drain. Wash her car. Clip your toenails. Whatever the hell it is.”

Mark processed all that with a slow nod and an intrigued quirk of his head.

“And when she fucks up, don’t be an asshole. You can be right and smug about it, or you can be married,” Finau leveled a pointed finger at him. “Follow my advice, young padawan, and guarantee, you’ll get more downtown action.”

Mark’s brows rose in interest. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Mark nodded in contemplation. This was some Dr. Phil shit he could get behind.

“You guys set a date yet?” Finau asked.

“Yeah. This Thursday, at the courthouse.”

Finau recoiled as if he caught a whiff of Bell’s old tuna sandwich in the fridge.

“What? Aw, hell nah, bro. My wife had her wedding planned out by the time she was ten years old, with or without me, and you think your girl’s good with that?”

“Look, believe me, I wish I could take her to Hawaii or something, but…obviously we don’t got that kinda time right now. Feels like we’ve waited long enough, you know?” Mark said. His eyes were heavy for a moment, but he forced it all back down behind an easy smile. “You’re welcome to come though. Bring the wife and the kids. We’ll have some more witnesses.”

Finau stroked his bearded chin in contemplation. “You know, I’m legally an officiant. I could perform the ceremony for you guys.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I did it for my cousin a couple years ago. His wife’s Catholic and he’s Jewish, so they figured, why not piss off both sides of the family and make it a nondenominational service.”

Mark grinned. “That’s pretty cool. So what, you’re ordained?”

Finau grinned and raised his hands up toward the heavens.

“Call me Pastor Luke.”

Mark had to laugh. “Well, all right. Thanks…but where would we do it, then?”

Finau withdrew his phone from his pocket. “You know what, let me get my wife on this. She knows half the event planners in the city.”

You knew your mom had good intentions when she encouraged you to do this, but you kind of wanted to bolt from the table. Starbucks was never not busy, even on a Monday afternoon.

Sarah walked into the coffee shop and soon found you in the back corner. She already looked happy to see you, even though guilt shone bright like tears in her eyes. She was one of your oldest friends since high school. Other than Mark, she knew you better than anyone.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, taking a seat across from you. “I’m…really happy you called.”

You nodded, swallowing past a lump of emotion in your throat. “It’s good to see you too. Look, I’m…I’m sorry I haven’t answered your calls or that many of your texts, but I read them all. I got all the messages. I just needed time to sort some things out, especially after that night at the club. It’s been fucking chaos, honestly.”

“That’s what your mom said,” Sarah nodded. “But I just wanted to say this now that we’re here…I’m so sorry. Me, Yesenia, Lauren. We didn’t support you the way you needed us to. They feel the same way too.”

You’d gotten a couple of texts from Yesenia and Lauren apologizing for the way they treated you, trying to pawn you off on the next warm male body who might be able to take your mind off of Mark. Sarah was the only one who actually tried to check on you and ask if you were okay though.

You reached out for her across the table. She grabbed your hand back with both of hers, and tears in her eyes. You had to blink past the sting yourself.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the only real friend I have,” you said. “That’s why I’m going to tell you something you can’t tell the others. Especially not Rachel.”

Her brows drew together in concern, but the moment you opened your mouth to explain, her face melted into shock.

“Mark took you home that night?”

“Aww, he stayed with you to make sure you were okay, and he brought you breakfast?”

“Wait, he didn’t sleep with her?”

And then the predictable question: “Do you believe him?”

“Yeah, I do,” you said wryly. “Rachel’s apparently hated me since we were kids, so there’s that ticket to bring to therapy.”

Sarah was understandably reeling, but she was smart. Memories were starting to connect in her brain, along with the exact kinds of questions you didn’t want her to ask.

“But if he didn’t sleep with her, why didn’t he try harder to convince you? He didn’t even try calling you again after we left Venice.”

“I didn’t let him,” you said ruefully. “I was stubborn and angry, and he thought I’d never believe him, thanks to those bullshit pictures. Then he went undercover for nine months.”

It was only half true, but it was enough. Sarah was convinced, and she was so very sad for you.

“But you two are back together now, right? Things are good—”

She cut herself off with a gasp that turned more than a few heads when you flashed her the very familiar ring on your left hand. She squealed. You smiled and laughed along with her.

She took your hand and admired it from all angles.

“Oh my God, this is like a goddamn movie,” she said, wiping her tears. “Have you set a date yet?”

“Thursday,” you smirked.

Sarah almost couldn’t compute. Her blue eyes went comically wide.

“Bitch, are you nuts? That’s in three days!” she exclaimed. It earned her quite a few more head turns and weird looks. You brought her down to earth with placating hands.

“Relax, we’re just going to go to the courthouse. I ordered the marriage license last week. But I would like to do things right this time,” you said with a smaller, truer smile. “Would you be my Maid of Honor?”

Sarah dissolved into tears all over again, which meant so did you. You two got up from the table and hugged it out, swaying like teenage girls. Your ensuing excitement had you two leaving Starbucks and heading down the street toward rows of boutiques and shops.

“Where are we going?” Sarah asked.

“For your first Maid of Honor duty, I need you to help me pick out the dress,” you said.

“What about the first—oh, yeeeah.” Her thoughtful frown turned into a grimace. You nodded in agreement.

“Yeah,” you sighed.

Your first dress had been a dream. It took you three months to find it, and not only had it fit you like a glove before alterations, but it had been everything you’d wanted since you were a little girl.

But that thing was the first casualty after your almost-marriage imploded.

All your rage had to go somewhere.

So that very night, Sarah and the rest of your friends had been your witnesses when you chopped up your dream with garden sheers, then burned the remains in a charcoal barbeque pit along with Mark’s favorite boots (the foolish man left them in your car while you were in Venice).

Of course you now deeply regretted that moment, but it was too late to cry over shredded lace.

“Let’s check out this one! I’ve always wanted to go in here,” you said, pointing to a wedding boutique you’d normally cast off as too expensive. Even if you weren’t going to have a real wedding, you still wanted to blow Mark’s mind (followed by the rest of him later).

WEDNESDAY

The marriage license came in the mail earlier than expected.

You were grinning like a madwoman when you recognized the city postage, but you almost didn’t want to open it without Mark. Instead, you tucked it in your big-ass everything purse, hoping it wouldn’t get lost in the trip between your apartment and his house.

First, you had a stop to make.

Mark thought you were lingerie shopping, pouting and blowing up your phone because you hadn’t waited to take him with you. He was on his way home from work.

You reminded him that the whole point of the wedding night was for him to be surprised.

Fine. I’ll take nudes as a consolation prize.

You snorted, seeing his text. You typed out a quick reply while you settled into your car.

Okay, I guess you deserve a little something. 😏

Pending a quick Google search, you sent him a picture of a man’s hairy foot (of the puss-ridden athlete variety).

🤢 That’s not nice. Boner killer.

You’re driving, dummy. Don’t test me again, or next time it’ll be a dick pic.

Oh, yeah? And where’re you pulling that from exactly? You getting solicited by other dicks I don’t know about??

You snickered and decided to ignore him for now. Let him stew in his imagination.

You adjusted the rearview mirror of your car and noticed a guy in a silver sedan parked behind you in the garage. Usually Mrs. Jacobs’ red Mini Cooper occupied that space, but maybe it was someone trying to be slick and park closer to the elevators to bring their groceries in.

She’d complained to the HOA about it before, which was why there were signs on every level of the garage, informing non-residents that their vehicle would be towed if they weren’t using a guest space.

Sucks for that guy. He’s about to get slapped with a $250 fine.

You pulled out of the space, smirking when your phone started buzzing with more texts. What Mark didn’t know was, you’d already done all your shopping with Sarah yesterday, including finding your dress. Today, you had something else on the agenda.

It led you to a familiar bar in Downtown. You went through the effort of paying for parking, even though you knew you weren’t going to be here long. Walking in, you passed by the same spot where you threw up in the street last month.

You found Amber Oliveras already sitting at the bar counter, half a beer down. She nodded at you with a faint smile, twisting toward you in her seat. You took the one next to her.

“Hey, good to see you,” you said.

She rose a subtle brow. “Is it?”

You shot her a wry smile and flagged down the bartender for two shots of whiskey.

“Come on, you know me. I don’t hold a grudge,” you said.

The two of you shared a glance, and it only took that moment to have you both smirking. Then laughing. It started out slow, but it was one of those that fed off the other in a purely what the fuck even is this kind of moment in time.

You remembered when Amber cut out of college during junior year to join the Police Academy. You remembered when you used to complain about finding gobs of her dark hair clogged in the drain, and she’d get pissed about your makeup and face creams left strewn all over the bathroom counter.

Now you both were literally working for the government, if on polar ends of the spectrum. She risked her life every day. You were chained to a desk, organizing a more powerful man’s day. Sometimes you envied her. Other days you didn’t, like when you thought about Damon Drew.

“Look, maybe seeing you in an evening gown when I felt like a greasy gremlin took a few shots at my ego, but I know you and Mark were just doing your job,” you said. “I know about the team, the task force. Valwell got his nose whacked by his bosses for trying to break up the band, but he’s not going to forget how Blythe embarrassed him.”

Amber nodded. She’d already suspected you knew.

“Blythe can handle it. He’s been in this game a long time, knows how to throw his weight around.”

“I can see,” you said in amusement. When the whiskey came around, you and Amber knocked back your shot glasses in a companionable silence. She nodded her thanks for the drink.

“So you and Meachum, huh?” she said, with a huff of laughter. “Jesus, what’s that like?”

You shook your head and smiled wryly. “Look, I know what you probably think of me. But it’s—”

“Complicated?” she offered. “That’s what your man says too.”

With the smaller glass empty, she went back to sipping her beer. Her eyes softened a little though; she noticed your ring, shining even under the dim lighting.

“Really, it doesn’t matter what I think,” she said. “You and Meachum, that’s your business. I just…hope you’re happy.”

That hesitation, right before she met your gaze. You believed her.

You smiled. “I am. That’s why I need to ask you for a favor.”

Her brows rose. “Uh oh. I may clean up nice, but just so you know, I don’t do bridesmaid dresses.”

“Relax,” you chuckled. You reached out and laid a hand on her arm, over her leather jacket. “Look out for him out there. Please.”

It took her a moment, but she nodded.  

“You got it.”

THURSDAY

When Mark told you about his idea for the change in venue, to say you were surprised would be an understatement. The man didn’t even know the difference between the cocktail hour and the reception, yet somehow he’d gotten an open spot for a “micro wedding” at the Ruth & Bancroft Garden and Nursery.

“You can never have enough flowers, right?” he’d grinned. He sipped a beer from his side of the living room sofa.

You’d smiled with tears in your eyes. Then you all but launched yourself at him, making him spill his beer, but getting your happy kisses all over his face. And you rode him nice and slow during an episode of Friends. (Ironically, it was The One Where Ross and Rachel…You Know.)

But today was more than a wedding.

Today, you knew you were in the middle of a new dream. The guest chairs were set up in a clearing of green grass overlooking a beautiful gazebo. You stepped out of it in a dress that clung to your form in white satin and delicate lace. Sarah had done your hair and makeup. Lisette had worked with the venue to put together your wedding bouquet. She held onto your arm both to support you, and to step in for your dad in giving you away.

What you would’ve given for him to be here.

You sucked in a shallow breath as you took it all in—from the soft golden lights in the hanging vines of tall trees, to the surrounding gardens bathed in the last rays of waning sunlight. There were beds of light purple desert willows and the gentle whites of St. Catherine’s Lace, brilliant red Coral Fountains and yellow-orange agave plants, along with too many others you couldn’t name.

You took in every face, some familiar and some new. Finau was your officiant, and his wife Amina and daughters were in the front row. Behind them were the other members of Mark’s team, Keyonte Bell, Evan Shepherd, and even Nathan Blythe, standing stoic but cordial when he offered you a nod. Shepherd had a bright smile and a little wave for you though. You smiled and waved back. You looked forward to meeting them later.

Then you finally looked ahead.

Sarah was there on the left as your Maid of Honor, and Amber stood with Mark as his “Best Woman.” Unlike you, Mark actually was an only child, and the closest friend he still had at the PD was probably Finau. So you’d swallowed what little remained of your jealousy and laughingly agreed to that idea too. No matter what she said, she totally rocked a bridesmaid dress.

But once you looked up, the only person you could see was Mark.

He was standing there under the arch threaded with more blooms, purple and white. His hands were folded in front of him while he wore a black suit and a tie the color of vintage wine. He’d trimmed up his beard, bought new shoes, looking like James Bond himself. But all you could focus on was the rare gentleness in his eyes and the smile across his lips. You didn’t even remember taking those last steps that brought you to him, but your soul crept back into your body long enough for you to take his offered hand.

You kissed your mom’s cheek, and she stroked yours with tears in her eyes. She did the same for Mark, parting from him with a motherly kiss on his cheek. He made sure to help her to her chair first, before he came back to you. A light breeze tousled his hair, kissed your lashes. But that wasn't what made your eyes sting.

You didn’t realize you were weeping until Mark swept the watery paths from your cheek. You felt overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. You smiled at him, and he returned it.

“Welcome, everyone, you can be seated,” Finau started. He gave you and Mark a smiling nod before he continued. “We know why we’re here. We’re here to celebrate a relationship that has endured. Marrying into law enforcement isn’t easy. My wife’ll tell you.”

That earned laughter from the small crowd, Amina included. Finau then focused on you and Mark.

“Neither of you are strangers to the demands of this kind of life, but the commitment you’re making today, to each other, is beautiful and admirable. Marriage is not a noun; it's a verb. It isn't something you get. It's something you do. It’s choosing the person standing in front of you, over and over. The decision you’ve made isn’t just today—it’s tomorrow, and the next.”

You squeezed Mark’s hands on reflex; mostly for the support, because that cresting wave of emotion was back, threatening to drown you. He held you steady, even though his own eyes were getting a bit misty too. Maybe his reasons were different than yours. Maybe they were the same.

“Do either of you have any personal vows you want to share?” Finau asked.

You and Mark both blinked in surprise. Vows?

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

You frowned at him, your lips pursing. An idea seemed to spark in his eyes, sending off an alarm bell in your mind.

“Actually, yeah. I do,” he said.

This time, you squeezed his hands for a whole different reason. You leveled him with a warning look.

He gave you a reassuring one that said, Relax, I got this.

“You know I’m, uh, not very good at this sort of thing usually,” he started. His grin was infectious, even though you were still slightly nervous about whatever was going to come out of his mouth. You were certain he didn’t know either.

“When I met you, I got hit, literally and figuratively. Head-on collision. I thought I was playing it fast and loose, like I do everything else. But I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t know how goddamn lucky I was…but I do now. I got a taste of what my life would be like without you, and I, uh…” His jaw worked. He blinked a little faster, working through his words.

“Let’s just say, I don’t want to go there again,” he said. “You’re the heart of you and me.”

You bit into your lip, not even caring anymore than you were probably smudging your lipstick, or that it was getting harder to breathe.

“So I promise to protect you and take care of you, for as long as you let me. For as long as I can,” he said, his eyes burning meaningfully with conviction when he slid the gold band on your finger. It fell into place against your engagement ring.

You steadied yourself with a calming breath, rubbing your thumbs along the back of his hands.

“I’m someone who likes lists, rules, order, sense,” you said with a laugh. “Checklists make you itch. You take rules as a challenge to beat, and you not only thrive in chaos, but you’re known to make some yourself.”

That got you a few knowing chuckles, and a grin from Mark.

“Opposites attract for a reason, right?” you said. “You get me out of my own head, out of my rigid lines, and I try to reel you back in when we go too far off road. But when my mouth gets me in trouble, you know when to back me up, or when to give me a reality check.”

“I try my best on that one,” he teased.

You smirked, but it soon softened. “The truth is, you’re the one person I let myself lean on. You’re strong enough to hold me when I can’t hold myself up anymore.”

It became hard to speak. Emotion threatened to choke you, but you managed to breathe past it.

“So I promise that you can lean on me too when you need to,” you said, meeting his eyes as you slid his ring onto his finger. “I’ve told you before that you’re the love of my life. I know you think that’s cheesy as hell, but it’s the truth. You’re the only one.”

Mark felt the new weight on his hand as he flexed and clenched his fingers, but all he could see was you.

“By the power vested in me by the state of California, I now pronounce you man and wife,” Finau declared. “You may now kiss the—uhh…”

Mark was a man who lacked patience at the best of times. You smiled into his lips while he held your face in his hands. You grabbed onto his suit jacket and pulled him in closer.

Finally.

Later that night, you and Mark made good use of a premier suite in an LA beachfront hotel. He told you to pick your favorite that had an opening, and don’t even look at the price.

You were swimming naked in Egyptian cotton sheets by the time he came back to join you from cleaning up in the bathroom. Though he wouldn’t tell you that he had to take two more useless pills to try and relieve the piercing, throbbing ache that radiated behind his right temple, the brittle stars in his eyes. Stress seemed to be a trigger for this ticking time bomb, and didn’t care if it was the good kind or not.

He stayed there longer than he wanted to, just holding onto the pristine granite counter like a lifeline. At least it was an upgrade from the cracked ceramic of his bathroom sink at home.

His head hung between his shoulders. Fuck. The word was an acidic mantra carving through his mind. He felt like pounding his head against the wall until he broke through the plaster, until his skull cracked open and the rot came pouring out.

Instead, he forced the shallow, shaky breaths through his nose. It took longer than usual for the edge of it to dull into a lesser throb. He blinked back the sting of tears. Frustration, desperation, fear, pain. Threads barely kept from unraveling.

When his lips stopped trembling, he let himself leave the bathroom. He slid back into bed with you and snuck his arms around your waist, waking you up from a doze. You smiled at the line of raspy kisses he was leaving down your neck, then tantalizingly down your shoulder.

“Round four?” he teased. His voice was tinged with grit, the remnants of strain.

You uttered a laugh that kept on going. You hung onto his arms, but you shook your head. Your pretty lingerie had lasted about halfway through round one, now strewn in a heap with his nice suit on the floor. The dress had miraculously stayed intact though. It hung from a hanger on the bathroom door.

“We gotta be careful, babe. You might just knock out my IUD,” you joked.

Mark smirked. “You still got that thing in?”

You scoffed. “Uh, yeah. What, you think I’ve been rolling the dice for the past two months?”

He quirked his head, as if to say, that’s fair. He laid back on his side of the bed, but still kept an arm slung around your waist. 

“Remind me when you got it?”

You huffed in amusement.

“About a month into us dating," you said. "I didn’t trust you with condoms.”

He smirked. “What, after the way we met, you thought I was gonna forget to suit up?”

“No. I thought, ‘One day, this man’s gonna fuck around and bust this flimsy piece of rubber wide open.’ Fucking wildman.”

He was practically wheezing by the end of your little explanation. He wiped an almost-tear of mirth from his eye, and his head rolled toward you.

“Would it really have been so bad if you’d gotten pregnant?” he said.

Your brows rose as high as your hairline. You shifted toward him onto your side, propping your head up with one hand. A small smile played on your lips as you tried to figure him out.

“All right, where’s your head at now?” you asked.

He hesitated, and that caught your attention too. 

“Nowhere,” he said, shaking his head and rubbing at his eyes. He chuckled. “Nothin’. You wore me out. I’m just tired, talking shit.”

He’d regretted those words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Because yeah, it would’ve been that bad. It was enough that he was doing this to you, dragging you along with him on this hell ride. Let alone a kid.

“Mhmm.” Your free hand slid across his bare chest. “The last time we talked about kids, I was still planning the wedding. The first one, obviously. We were going to turn the third bedroom into a nursery…pending a fun-filled honeymoon.”

Your face slowly fell. Seeing the melancholy hiding behind his eyes, you tapped a gentle beat on his chest. You blinked back your tears, because if you let yourself succumb now, you wouldn’t stop. 

“I’m sorry this is, uh, only for one night,” Mark said, clearing his throat. A purposeful change of subject that you kind of appreciated. 

He grabbed your hand and squeezed. “You deserve a week—hell, a fucking month trip to Hawaii. Spain. Greece. Wherever you wanna go. You deserve the day you planned back then. Not—”

“Hey,” you interrupted. “It was your day too. And honestly? The plates, the flowers, all that shit. It doesn’t matter. If nothing else, I know that now.” 

You held your hand to his cheek and guided his face toward you, prompting him to meet your eyes.

“Today and tonight,” you said. “For now, that’s all I need. The rest, we’ll figure out, okay?”

After a moment, he nodded in agreement. Tomorrow, and the next.

“Okay.”

AN: We're getting closer to the finish line on this series! (And those twists I warned you about before.) I'm thinking we've got about three more parts to this—or at least the "After" section. 😉 I might go back and fill in with some lighter times "Before" the events of Downgrade.

But until then, what did you think of Mark's second opinion? There might be a little hope for him yet. 💙 (For those who've seen 1x09: even with all the Mark suffering, there's a canon glimmer!!!) Plus, Finau coming in clutch here and reader finally having her one-on-one with Oliveras. 😆 Do you want more "screen time" between those two? I love Oliveras lol.

And finally, what did you think of the wedding? A little sappy, I know, but these two needed their happy moment, right? 😂💞

Especially since we're going deep in the next part...

Next Time in Hurt for Me:

You woke to the sound of hard thumps against the wall. They weren’t coming from the bedroom though. The bathroom door was ajar, the echoes reaching you like discordant notes. 

You quickly slid out of bed and fumbled a little; you were a bit discombobulated with sleep clinging to your mind and limbs. Your belly tightened with a warning ache. Too much greasy pizza last night, probably. Or just the stress.

Your growing dread allowed you to ignore it for now. Using the wall as a guiding support for your steps, you eventually found Mark struggling under harsh lighting and sharp shadows. 

Coming to Patreon 8/20 || Coming to Tumblr: 8/27

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DEAR JAMES #6

Previous Chapter

summary: bucky founds a letter in his desk. Who is the mistery woman behind them?

pairing: congressman!bucky x fem!reader.

warnings: None. Pure fluff!

a/n: Soooo, I'm a liar. This is not the last chapter. Let's call it a two chapter finale event. You are all amazing and I love you.

@pampi-iranzo

Monday Morning couldn’t come fast enough for Bucky. Sunday was hell on earth. He hardly had any sleep, the waiting was driving him crazy. He almost showed up at your door, and then decided against it. He knew he had to play his cards right. He couldn’t rush or he’ll end up ruining his chances. But the worst part was he couldn’t stop thinking in the way she looked, hurt and disappointed all together. He wanted to make it right. The idea that he wounded her made his heart ached in a way that knocked the air out of his lungs.

A tap on his door startled him. He wasn’t expecting anyone. When he opened the door he found the building doorman holding a letter on his hand. He took it without saying a word and run downstairs hoping he could catch her. Instead he found a courier already leaving the building.

He came back to his apartment. He looked at the letter as it might bite. He was already expecting bad news. He sat on the sofa, poured a glass of whiskey, told himself repeatedly to man up and proceed to read.

It was worst than what he envisioned. You went for the kill. No preamble. Just straight to the point. The word “goodbye” was psychically hurting him. The amount of times he said “fuck” out loud it was unprecedented. He could almost see you, your sad eyes, scribbling fast, just to get everything out of your chest. What if you regret the whole thing? What if you quit and never want to see his dumb face again? He needed a plan and he needed it now. If he was going to win her back he knew exactly the way to her heart.Before he could even realize it, he was typing on his computer like a man possessed.

To my mystery girl:

It’s been so long since the last time I wrote a letter, I used to write to my mum and my sister during war but, as surprising it may seem, I don’t think I’ve ever written a love letter. I’ve seen other soldiers doing it. Most of them kept a photo of their girlfriends close to their hearts, a beckon of hope, a reason to come back home safe. I remembered watching them and thinking that If something ever happened to me there was no special someone who would receive my dog tags or bring me flowers to my grave. I knew I was probably missing out on something extraordinary. But as fearless I was in the battlefield I was the biggest coward when it come to love. Back on the day, I could charm the prettiest girl on the room but never ask a lady on a second date. I thought it was pointless, that I ‘d have time later to focus into the matters of the heart. But it turned out I didn’t.

I used to think I didn’t deserve love. That it was not in the cards for me. Too old, too broke, out of date. It felt so out of reach, that I didn’t even let myself fantasize about it. And now, due to some recent and unexpected events, I’ve had a sudden change of heart.

Your words have disarmed, one by one, every single wall I’ve built up through the years. You gave me hope. If a kind soul like yours could look at me and see good then I could see myself through your eyes and see it too. Every time you show me some fear or insecurity I’d wished I could let you know that I was feeling the same way myself. What If I did something that made you thought less of me? I want to, so desperately, to be the man that deserves such faith. Not the Winter Soldier, Not Bucky, Not Congressman Barnes. Just James. Your James.

On your last letter you’ve told me it was for the better that I’ve never found out who you were. I’m sorry to let you down sweetheart. I do know. It took me a while to figured it out, but eventually all the pieces of the puzzle came together. I felt like such an idiot, because it couldn’t be anyone else but you.

Stop. Just stop. I know you are probably staring at the letter and yelling that you are not Stacy, that I’m a dumb ass and I’ve got it all wrong. But doll, I know you aren’t. Y/N, it’s been you all along.

I am the undeserving one. You are my brilliant chief of staff. I don’t think I could’ve survived without you. Always the smartest person on the room. On the other hand, so kind and sweet, so attentive to everyone needs. You are funny in the silliest most endearing way possible. And to top it all, you are breathtakingly beautiful. “Writing sonnets” and “tearing down kingdoms” beautiful. A soft and quiet kind of beauty. It's so rare. And what surprises me the most it's that you don't even realize it. You light up every room you walk in with your smile.

There is so much more I want to say, but I’d rather say it in person. If you give me the chance. Don’t go disappearing on me y/n.

Yours,

James

He could hear his pounding heartbeat loud and clear. He didn’t reread the letter. He didn’t need to. He was terrified, never shared such intimate information to another soul, not even his therapist for God’s sake. However he felt almost relieved, he knew she would take good care of his heart. He was giving away a part of him, but she had given him so much already, this was the only way to even the score.

Monday is probably the most dreadful day of the week for most people. But right here, right now, Monday was Bucky’s lifeline. Monday was the day he was going to win you back.

[blackwall-my-tiny-husband]

Thursday Bangers 7/31

Rules: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays.)

Thanks @gutz-ingellvar for hosting and @woundedsoul12 for the game <3 also @chaosherald @serensama @aetherflowers for the tags this week

This weeks lyrics: “Have you ever had a dream? / Would you fight for it? / Would you go to war? / Would you die for it? / So now I'll take my stand / Now I'll make you see / That if you seek forgiveness / You'll get nothing from me” — Bow Down by I Prevail

Man I’ve missed a few bangers but I’m catching up (the one before this is the conclusion of Zalan and Turvi in the wrong universes, one day we’ll post those) This is another modern assassin au. I thought too long about my silly Saturday blurb and how those events played out and then tripped into writing it (2,234 words below)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Hospitals were always too bright, too loud, voices overlapping all trying to be heard. Every flashing light, snapping command, and beeping noise thrumming through her head as she watched Zalan get wheeled through the doors from the ambulance bay. And then, abruptly, it was quiet. The noise had followed him and she was left standing there with blood covering her arms and shirt in the near silence.

Harding stood where there had been chaos just moments ago. She should follow them, she knew but she couldn’t get her feet to move. Zalan had been so pale, he hadn’t been moving, his eyes hadn’t been open.

The uncomfortable tacky feeling of the blood on her arms finally got her feet to unstick from the floor and she slowly followed after them. She’d seen him shot before, had even sewn him back up a few times herself. But this was worse than any of that. He’d been shot in the chest, too close. There’d been so much blood. She’d tried to stop it, pressing on the wound as someone nearby called an ambulance. The wailing siren drowning out everything as it got closer.

She hovered outside the room, watching doctors and nurses flitting around him, trying to stabilize him. They were yelling to each other as they worked, alarms blaring and beeps flatlining only to pick back up an unhealthy rhythm every time they defibrillated him. Harding was wringing her hands, scared and really too short to see much of what was going on. She couldn’t tell if tears were slipping down her face or if the fluorescent bulbs were making her vision blurry.

Eventually a nurse spotted her and gently tried to lead her to the waiting room. Harding planted her feet, shaking her head, she couldn't leave yet and she told the woman as much. The beeping hadn't stopped yet and she needed to see him, to make sure he was still there. The nurse looked sympathetic but was firm and told her they needed room to work. That got her to finally deflate and she let herself be led out of the back and to the waiting area where she stayed. The room felt too small and too big, other people wandering around or coughing or crying making it too noisy. The chairs were hard and plastic and she sat in one staring at the floor letting the sounds and smells of the hospital wash over her.

Once again the stickiness of the drying blood was the thing that got her moving again even when she wanted nothing more than to sit there and disappear, just meld into the plastic and metal she sat on. She headed to the bathroom and spotted her reflection- she was covered in blood, in Zalan’s blood. Her breath caught in her throat but she pushed it away, furiously scrubbing to get as much of it off of her as she could. When her skin was pink from washing and most of it had spiraled down the drain she remembered the crows and sent rapid fire messages to Viago, Ilene, and Lucanis. But they were on a mission and she didn’t think she would get a reply.

Desperate, she called Varric, pressing the phone to her ear. When the older man answered the phone with a chuckle and a,

“Hey Harding what’s up?” She slid to the floor of the bathroom, the dam finally breaking and the tears cascading down her face. She hiccuped into the phone,

“Uh, Harding? Are you crying?" He sounded immediately more concerned. "Harding, talk to me." She wiped her face with the back of her arm, trying to stem some of the flow. She choked back the sob and sniffled,

"It's Zalan, it's bad Varric, we're at the hospital. They won't tell me anything. What do I do?"

"Alright kid, I'll be there in five." He hung up and Harding tried to get herself together, getting up and splashing some water on her face.

Leaving the bathroom she found a seat in the corner and sat. She checked her phone hoping for a response and settled in to wait.

And wait.

She tried to ask if there was any news but the receptionist said he couldn’t tell her anything. ‘She wasn’t family’ the man had said.

And she was back to waiting.

And checking her phone and waiting.

Varric showed up and wrapped her into a hug. She'd been keeping it together but lost it again at the hug, crying into his shoulder. He awkwardly patted her back but was clearly distraught at seeing her this upset.

At her urging he went up to the desk and tried to charm his way to the information. But even as she watched him lean and smile and chuckle with the receptionist Harding knew he wouldn't be successful. He came back shaking his head after a few more minutes and he settled down next to her to wait.

So she continued waiting. Eventually she had to go home, logically she understood, her clothes were soaked with dried blood and she needed to change and maybe try to force some sort of food into her body. But she didn’t want to leave Zalan there. She tried again to ask if they could tell her anything, any news, but they said they couldn’t- rules and all that. They sounded sympathetic but wouldn’t give her anything. And she still hadn’t heard from the de Rivas.

So Varric took her home to the apartment. He asked if she wanted him to stay but she didn't want to bother him. He told her he would check in on her tomorrow before leaving. She cleaned the rest of the blood off of her and tossed her clothes, not even wanting to look at them. She struggled through a cup of water and a granola bar and paced around Zalan's rooms. It was too quiet with only the sounds of the city outside seeping in and her own too loud breathing racing her heartbeat. Eventually she found herself crawling into the bed, clutching his pillow to her chest. She didn’t think she slept, just laid there in the dark, too numb to even cry.

Her phone lighting up with a message had her bolting out of bed, lunging for the device. It was Viago, he was at the hospital and Zalan was getting out of surgery. And she finally felt like she was taking her first breath in hours. He told her she could come by to see him in an hour or two, after they got him set up in a room. Though they didn’t expect him to wake up for a while.

And a plan had already started forming, trickling into her brain while she’d laid there in the miserable dark. An hour would be more than enough time to double check a few things and look up the paperwork she’d need. The computer in Zalan’s apartment booted up quickly, the printer following after it, Viago owed her and she would be calling in some favors tonight.

//

The beeping had Zalan blinking against the bright lights and his vision swam for a few moments, nothing making sense. Finally things became things again in his line of sight but everything still felt fuzzy around the edges and his mind was sluggish. Harding stood just inside the room and he wondered why she looked sad but then he remembered- he’d been shot. He remembered pushing her out of the way, Harding yelling his name, the world going black.

He frowned and tried to move his arms, trying to touch his chest where he’d been hurt but Lace was moving to him, gently taking his hands and putting them back in his lap. There were wires tangling together all around him and he tried to brush some away before Harding moved his hands back again.

“Wha’ happened?” He slurred, mouth not wanting to form words. “Shot.” He added very helpfully. Lace looked bad, he realized now looking at her close up. Her outline was fuzzy like the rest of the world but she looked exhausted, bruised and battered, and she looked rumpled like she hadn’t slept for some time.

“You got shot but it’s okay, you’ll be fine now.” She told him, voice a little shaky, hands still in his. He smiled at her, happy she was holding his hands and nodded, whatever Lace said was usually true. He always believed her.

“Love you.” He couldn’t keep his words from sliding together as his spoke but she seemed to understand and smiled wanly at him, freeing one hand to push some of Zalan’s hair away from his face. That seemed to solidify something for her and she looked determined, nodding to herself.

She put some papers on the bed, had she been holding them this whole time? He couldn’t remember which he was pretty sure should bother him but the cloudy soft world was keeping that at bay. She handed him a pen, helping him wrap his unwilling fingers around it,

“Zalan I need you to sign this.” She put his hand on the paper and he nodded, Harding always knew what she was doing. He did something with his hand, he was fairly sure it was good enough to be a signature. She tucked the papers away again and he happily took her hands back, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs. Or at least he hoped he was doing that, he couldn’t really feel his hands so he wasn’t totally sure.

“Wha’s it?” He nodded towards where the papers had been. Her face scrunched up a little but she leaned forward to press the lightest kiss on his cheek,

“Marriage certificate.” She told him, and he nodded sagely like she’d told him a great secret to the universe. She huffed an exasperated puff of air and he smiled at her, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped smiling at her. The fuzzy world was getting fuzzier and he felt like he was going back underwater but he squeezed her hands, letting his eyes slide shut mumbling something that sounded like her name.

//

Zalan was still in the hospital bed, tethered by monitors and iv lines and a myriad of cords. But he was alive and breathing and for the moment he couldn’t feel any pain, the pain killers being pumped through his body were helpful that way. Lace was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to be careful not to snag or pull anything and looking concerned.

The crow pulled their entwined hands towards him, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles.

“Really married then?” He asked her, amused, "Not a drug induced fever dream?" he wasn’t nearly as out of it as he had been the day before. She looked a little embarrassed about it but still more concerned than anything else.

“Viago pushed the paperwork through, it’s already official.” She looked up at him and he had already told her it was fine. More than fine, and more than once. But she still didn’t look like she totally believed him.

“Do you want me to buy you a ring?” He was rubbing circles over her hand and traced the spot on her finger a ring would sit. She looked down at their hands, brow furrowed.

“I’d probably just lose it. Or end up leaving it on a job and get us caught.” She gave a little snort at the idea. He hummed, the effort of sitting up finally starting to get to him, feeling tired. But he pressed another kiss to her hand, she was too far away to press a kiss into her temple like he wanted. She smiled softly at him and patted his hand as he sunk back into the bed.

//

Sitting in their apartment on the little loveseat Harding had the tv on and Zalan flopped down beside her, grinning. He was looking much better. But it had been several days since he'd been released from the hospital.

“What?” She finally asked him after letting the look he was giving her drag on for several moments.

“Here.” He held out his hand and dropped a single thin wedding band into her waiting palm. “We don’t have to wear them- you were right I don’t want to lose one on a mission. But we could keep them here.” He gestured to the house. She held the band, examining the simple design with a soft smile.

He took the ring from her hand and slid it onto her finger, pressing a warm kiss to her mouth as he did. She couldn't help the smile that pulled at her lips. She pulled back and looked at the ring, it felt right being there. He handed her his ring and she slipped it onto his finger, smiling and pressing a kiss to his mouth this time, feeling the chuckle from him.

She put it in her bedside drawer that night while Zalan was brushing his teeth. With letters from her Ma and her friends, next to her dog tags and her picture with her dad and mom before the divorce. Nestling it among the mementos with a happy grin. It was silly perhaps, to enjoy seeing it among her possessions like it belonged there, and maybe she had forced Zalan into it, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Just tagging the assassin squad since I’m sure just about everyone’s done the banger already (but if you haven’t and want to do it here’s your tag) @davrinsleftpectoral @kabsey @hedwigoprah @serensama @grand-crow @aetherflowers @chaosherald @bronzieinthedas

(If you want on/off the tag list just let me know)

[lynninlinkon]

I’ve been sitting on this fic idea for like 6 months trying to think about how I would want to write it, but I really really really want to write a isekai polyfic for LADS that focuses more on the world they live in and trying to navigate it as someone from the past

Like I love all the isekai fics, but none of them really capture how jarring it would be to be thrown into a world set in the future with monsters running around so much its as normal as a house fire or bulgary.

Like I would want y/n to be a normal person living a shitty normal life who’s more of a casual player of the game and doesn’t know a whole lot about the lore. Then, after collapsing at work one day you find yourself inside the game in a no hunt zone.

You wake up with a massive headache and hear a wanderer in the distance. Then, BOOM you book it the hell out of there, not even thinking about the hunter grade pistol at your side or your hunter’s watch blaring on your wrist, until you finally reach the edge of a city and see a “WELCOME TO LINKON” sign and are convinced you’ve gone insane.

I also I don’t want you to be super strong or to be a chosen one, maybe I would play with the idea powers or fate just to keep the plot interesting, but ultimately you’re super normal and utterly confused. What do you mean there’s holograms and advanced technology and monsters and I still have to have a JOB and act like this is all normal??? How did MC keep up with juggling all of this, plus, the men that are pining after you??

Speaking of the guys, they all still are convinced you are their MC, even if they notice you’re kind of off- you aren’t as defined as she was, not as brave, or curious as she is.

They have to make it a point to find you because you avoid any contact with them initially, which pits them against each other, convinced someone has done this to you, or should I say, to her. Like imagine trying to run away from some of the most vicious, powerful, smart, and possessive men known to man? Do you know you have 30 minutes???

I also like the idea of some of them knowing that you aren’t MC, and having them struggle trying to adjust to the change, mourning the love they lost, and battling with comparing you to her. Maybe they seek comfort in each other??? You also have to struggle with identity and genuine connection, because you aren’t her at the end of the day, and they are chasing a ghost of someone who for all you know is now working your shitty job or trying to fight her way back to her universe. Do you decide to deceive them and wear MC shoes, or do you tell them the truth? maybe you open yourself up to others before some of the guys, causing even more trouble down the line because you can’t keep track of the truth and the white lies?

How do you explain that everything you know about them is because they are all pixels you interact with through a phone screen when you feel particularly lonely?? Will they think you’re just as crazy as you feel?

all in all, I would want it to be funny, drama filled, super tropey with a hint of self awareness, with a sprinkle of heavy angst and a dash of comfort.

Should I write it?? idk guys I don’t think I would be able to pull it off 😭

BONUS: MC has been missing for 2 months so when you step foot in the world and meet the guys for the first time, they already are upset and worried about you —or MC, I should say— and won’t let you catch a break when it’s already freaking you out that these fictional men are now alive and breathing in front of you

I also want zayne to accidentally hit you with his car some reason K-drama style I think that would be funny asf LMAO

[hazyfaith]

Permanent Peonies

Pairing: II x reader CW: fluff, tattoos so brief mention of needle, they are just really in love what can i say!

Summary: A surprise visit in your office result in a new tattoo.

Word Count: 1.5k a/n: from this request. i had so much fun writing it!! i hope its not too corny or like cringe? sorry for the inacuracy, i don't have any tattoos and prob never will bc i'm too weak and indecisive for any of it! lmk what you guys think of it!! also i'm so sorry abt the titles, the are getting worst with every fic😭😭

“They are really pretty,” II whispers over your shoulder.

You jump in your seat, lifting your pen quick enough that it would scratch the whole paper. You turn around and frown your eyebrows at him. He leans more over your shoulder, ignoring your disapproving gaze. He takes a closer look at the paper in front of you, admiring how gorgeous the flowers covering the page are. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking of getting a new tattoo,” he says, keeping his eyes on the drawings. “And I would like you to draw some flowers for it,” he suggests. 

“What?!” You almost yell. 

“I would like you to draw some flowers for my next tattoo,” he repeats seriously, turning his head to face you. 

“Are you sure about it? You know that’s something big you’re asking. It will be on your skin forever!” You exclaim, throwing your hands in the air. 

“I know it’s permanent, angel,” he chuckles, “I’ve thought about it for an embarrassing long time and it’s something I really want, if you want it too.”

Rather than answering right away you try to find any signs of lying in his eyes. His eyebrows are lowered and his eyes alternate between yours, the blue piercing through you. Your gaze goes down to his tattoo sleeves. He had accumulated them over the years, always thinking of more elaborate design without ever regretting any of them.

Your sketch books have also been accumulated over the years, improving your skill. You are capable of drawing things worthy of becoming permanents, at least he thinks so. 

“Yeah,” you breath out, “I’ll draw some flowers for you if you really want,” you smile shyly.

II smiles brightly and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He scrolls through his photos before flipping the phone in your direction, revealing pictures of vibrant peonies. 

“I was thinking of peonies. They are gorgeous flowers and I like the meaning behind it,” he starts. You raise an eyebrow at him, prompting him to continue. “It means love and prosperity, which is quite representative of what I’m going through right now with the band. I feel so loved by the fans and they are so supportive, I feel like it can only get better and better,” he confesses, his voice low. “I was thinking of three peonies together, maybe one of them hasn’t bloomed yet. But make whatever you think will look best,” he suggests.

“That’s so sweet II… I can absolutely do that. I’ll start working on it soon,” you promise. 

“Thank you, I appreciate it a lot,” he says, bending down and giving you a kiss. “I think you’re the only person I could trust with it,” he whispers before pulling away and leaving you to it.

—---

You’re pacing in front of your closed bedroom door, taking deep breaths. The papers you’re holding are fluttering because of how shaky your hands are. 

The last few days had been spent drawing and painting, trying to come up with the prettiest peonies you could make. Despite only having three designs with you, many more are laying on the floor or are crumpled in the trash can. Many of them are too bright, or too colourful for your liking. Some of them look disproportionate or the perspective is so off that it looks odd. You shiver at the thought of the ones you’re holding being just as bad. What if you’ve become blind to their defaults and they all look bad? What if he doesn’t like any of them? What if-

“Oh, you’re there!” II exclaims as he opens the door. “I was on my way to come get you, it’s time for bed.”

He reaches out for your hand but accidentally catches the papers instead. “What are these?” he inquires as he takes them out of your hands and brings them closer to him. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he flips through the pages, stopping for a few seconds and looking over each one. He does it another time, but slower. He inspects each of them, tracing his fingers over every flower and leaf. 

“I hope they are fine, if not I can remake them, just tell me-” you begin, fidgeting now that you’re not holding anything. 

“These are gorgeous, Angel,” he cuts you off, his eyes glued to your drawings. 

A loud sigh escapes your mouth, your arms falling to your side as your shoulders relax. All of your drawings are not all bad after all. 

“I really like this one,” he says, holding the drawing of three peonies lined up on top of the pile. “I think it will go well on my shoulder blade.”

He lifts his head up, his gaze meeting yours. A big smile is plastered on his face, a not so rare sight as others may think. He raises his hand once more, this time actually taking yours in his and pulling you close to him. His arms immediately going around your waist, his head resting against yours. A small thank you leaves his mouth along with a kiss against your cheek. 

He lets you go only for a few seconds while he puts the papers on your dresser. He then brings you to bed, pulling your body as close as humanly possible to him. 

“I’m getting it tattooed in a few days, would you like to come with me?” He asks, his face nuzzling your hair. 

“Sure, if you want me there,” you answer. You would love to be there, seeing your art being drawn on his skin, but there is also a part of you that is terrified to be in the room while it happens. What if it turns out bad? You don’t want to be there while he’s having so many regrets. 

“I would love you there… I can’t wait for it, I can’t wait to finally have a tattoo that you designed,” he murmurs, his voice laced with sleep.

—---

With his hand in the small of your back, you both walk in the tattoo shop. Quickly enough, II’s tattoo artist brings him back to his station and starts getting everything ready. 

Once the stencil is ready, II takes his shirt off and tosses it to you. The tattoo artist carefully places the stencil on II’s back and tells him to take a look in the mirror. 

“I like how it looks,” he says while nodding his head, yet keeping his eyebrows knitted, before turning towards you, “do you like it like that?” he asks you, turning away from the mirror to face you. 

“Uh- Of course! I think it’s a good placement,” you blurt, taken aback at the fact that he would even bother to take your opinion into account.

“Alrigth, let’s get started then!” The artist exclaims, rolling himself closer to the table. 

You shuffle towards the chair in the corner of the room, but before you could reach it II is already pulling it close to the table. Once you’re seated, he lies down on the table, his head towards you. As soon as the buzzing sound of the tattoo machine echoes through the room, he reaches out for you with the hand opposite to his soon-to-be tattooed shoulder blade. You hold it without a second thought, your thumb automatically rubbing over his knuckles. 

When the needles pierces his skin, II doesn’t even whine, so used to it by now. The whole time, he doesn’t voice any discomfort, which could've made anyone walking by believe that he isn’t in pain, but not you. Occasionally, he squeezes your hand when the artist goes over an especially sore spot over and over again. 

After what seemed like hours, the noise from the machine finally stops. II wastes no time getting up and walking towards the mirror, taking a look at the fresh ink on his skin. A big smile appears on his face. 

“I love it… It’s amazing,” he whispers, getting closer to the mirror. “Do you like it, Angel?” He asks a little louder, searching for you in the reflection. 

You stand up from the chair and walk up to him, your gaze fixed on the colours on his upper back. The closer you get, the more detailed the tattoo is. All the highlights and shades are revealed to you, the colours popping out even more. Everything that was on the original drawing is now on his back, bringing tears to your eyes.

“I love it…” you say faintly, looking back at him in the glass, returning him a soft smile.

He gives you a knowing nod before going back to the tattoo artist. Quickly, his skin is cleaned and a second protective skin is applied. After thanking the guy and paying him, II leads the way out of the shop. At his car, he stops in front of the passenger’s door and takes you in his arms. 

“Thank you for drawing it for me, it really means a lot. Now I have a little part of you everywhere I go,” he murmurs in your ear.

“Thank you for trusting me with it,” you say, your heart swelling at his sweet words. 

“Always, Angel. I’ll always trust you,” he reassures you, giving your temple a small kiss. 

[unknxwn-vxid-vxices]

Baby Saja’s Secret Boyfriend - Hangouts 3 | A5

Author’s Pre-Note: So it's officially been a month of me posting fanfiction content… a full month since the headcannons that kicked off this series. I appreciate you all and the time you take out of your days to read my content. Your support means a lot to me and makes writing all the more worth it.  Now I know it’s been a while since the last proper part, if you haven’t, check out my latest Gen Post, where I elaborate further on the sudden MIA. Lastly, I’ve decided to open my requests, so feel free to drop some [silly banter] on my blog page. Now, without further delaying, let’s get into this part shall we? 

Work Notes/Warnings: Male Reader, OOC Characters, Cursing, No Beta Read

Friends? Friends.

It had maybe been a day. And here Baby was in your apartment once more. You lie on your bed with him beside you. YOu’re both scrolling through your phones mindlessly with the stuffies spread across the mattress between you both. You’d finished up a studio session with Baby maybe an hour ago, and he insisted on coming to see the sharks after instead of going back to his home. 

You of course obliged, not having the energy to deny him or to argue with him over the topic. And it's not like you minded him coming over, spending time with him was slowly becoming far better than the time you typically took to yourself. 

You both lie shoulder to shoulder in a comfortable silence not feeling a need to talk. On occasion you poke Baby just to annoy him a little. Beyond that this simple moment is rather peaceful until Baby’s shoving his phone in your face. 

“WE should do this” Baby says with growing excitement in his voice as he showed you a video about the nearby night market. 

“Alright when?” You ask moving his hand and phone away from your face. 

“Tonight? I don’t have anything to do tomorrow. What about you?” Baby suggests and you lazily sigh, checking your phone calendar. 

“Nope. Tonight’s good, but what are we going to wear, plus I’d have to drive you home for you to get clothes.” You mumble thinking about how much effort was required and in response Baby smacks your chest lightly. 

“Or you can lend me something to wear.” Baby mutters and you look over your shoulder at him.

“Come on, friends do it all the time. I’m literally wearing a pair of Mystery’s socks right now.” Baby mumbles pointing at the dog paw adorned socks on his feet. 

You think for a couple moments about what Baby suggested. On the one hand you’d loaned him hoodies or hats before so this wasn’t necessarily out of left field. However at the same time, do you really want to give him unrestricted access to your closet? 

“I swear and promise that I’ll be nice to you the whole night.” 

“Okay now that’s a lie.” 

“I swear on our children.” 

“...” 

“Fine.” You sigh in resignation to his pleading. Baby cheers and springs off your bed buzzing with joy as he makes a break for your closet. Baby opens the closet doors and his eyes shimmer with awe and mischief. YOu just sit up on your bed and sigh. 

“Woah. Go shower first, smelly.” 

“I do NOT smell.” Baby yells in offence and you snicker at his reaction. 

“I said I wouldn’t bully you, not that you could bully me.” 

“I’m just keeping you humble.” 

“Yeah yeah whatever.” Baby mocks as he turns to you for a moment before rolling his eyes and making his way out of your room. 

“The towels are under the sink“ You call after him. 

About half an hour goes by and you lie on your bed patiently waiting for Baby to finish so that you can go clean yourself up. You hum along to the music playing from your speaker and think about what you’re going to wear your eyes drifting from your phone’s screen to the ceiling of your room. 

“Your soap is nice” Baby mutters as he walks in your bedroom’s doorway. The towel clinging to his waist, and you had to admit, Baby had a nice body on him. 

“Yeah I know.” You mutter getting off your bed with a slow groan.

“So I can pick out whatever I want right?” He asks as you move past him. 

“Yeah. Just don’t get too imaginative with how you can wear my clothes, and remember it should be stuff that isn’t overly eye-catching. We gotta blend in.” You remind him as you step out your room and turn to look at him.

“Yeah yeah I know. Now go shower. You smell.” Baby says with a cheeky smile as he closes your bedroom door in your face.  

“That sounds like bullying” YOu shout through the panel of wood and he groans on the other side. 

“Shut up and go shower already.” Baby shouts back, a fond smile barely gracing your face before you go to do as he ‘ordered.’

You stand in the doorway to your bedroom, hair damp after a nice shower. You were coming in here to get ready but right  now you’re taking a moment to judge what Baby chose to wear. 

“You look good.” You speak up, catching his attention. Baby somehow found all your oversized clothes and was now wearing them. In many ways they fit perfectly on him. 

“Oh. You’re finished, I’ll go wait in the living room then” Baby says as he grabs his phone and makes his way out the door, shuffling past you.

A little while later you join Baby in the living room wearing something similar to his, but that’s simply due to you having lots of clothes that can be mixed and matched. You also came out with two plain baseball caps and masks, tossing one pair to Baby. 

“To cover up” You say and wait for him to put them on. 

Baby puts on the hat and mask and turns to you. 

“Good?” 

“Yeah. The hair is style a neon light fest but what can I do” 

“Ugh. I get it, you don’t like my hair.” 

“I never said that. I just said it's hard to cover up.” You mention as you grab a few strands between your fingers and fiddle with them momentarily. 

You both stand there for a little before Baby clears his throat. 

“So you ready to go?” You snap out of the relaxing and repetitive motion of playing with his hair and flick his forehead. 

“Wow, so impatient and bossy.” You joke before grabbing your car keys. 

Getting to the night market was much faster than initially anticipated. Soon enough both you and Baby walked through the streets of the night market. The space buzzed with life, as people, stalls, shops and music intertwined creating a beautiful image of life. Whilst this wasn’t meant to be a work thing, you couldn’t help but be a little inspired looking around at everything happening around you. To think if you’d never met Baby you probably wouldn’t be here right now. You’d most likely be in your studio focussed on your work and next project rather than just taking time to enjoy life between the busy scheduling. 

“Something smells good” Baby says under his breath looking around and you look at him then begin searching for the source once the scent catches your nose as well. Baby soon stops pointing towards a toast store. 

“What’s that?” aby mumbles pointing at an EGGCATCH store and you chuckle a little. 

“What do you mean?” 

“That place, I’ve seen them around but I’ve never tried it.” 

“It’s street toast.” You tell him and Baby’s brows knead together.

“Really? Can we try it?” He asks looking back, you meet his eyes and smile. 

“Yeah of course.” 

You and Baby make your way to the line of the street toast store and you begin filling Baby in on all the different things that the place has on offer. 

“They got any like super spicy sauces?” 

“I think so… I’m not sure” 

You both resumed your stroll through the night market, street toasts in hand. You did your best to ignore the concerned stares of passers by who caught sight of Baby’s dripping wet sandwich. They did have hot sauce, they had three different levels… and of course Baby overfilled his sandwich with the two hottest ones. 

“You have a problem” YOu mutter under your breath glancing at Baby out of the corner of your eye. 

Baby snickers a little at your words. “I’m not that bad.” 

“Yes you are. You’ve literally chugged a bottle of hot sauce on national television.” 

“It wasn’t even that hot” Baby whispers in response and you just sigh at his defense. 

You both stroll around aimlessly stopping at various stalls to browse what’s on offer. As you near a more crowded part of the night market Baby grabs your hand and begins working his way through the crowd, pulling you along behind him. 

Once through the crowd Baby lets go of your hand and you both continue your stroll under the cover of night and city lights. 

“Oh that’s so pretty” You mutter pointing towards a tree with a few benches around it, various string lights dangling in the branches and connecting to nearby businesses. 

“Want a picture” 

“Nah. It’s just something nice. Not especially picture worthy.” You mention and Baby nods in understanding as his eyes dance around the street. 

“You wanna find an arcade?” He suggests. 

“Yeah? You wanna game?” You tease.

“I mean we came out here to do fun things, not things we can do in my apartment” You remind him but Baby waves his hand dismissively at you. 

“Oh. There’s one.” Baby hums and begins walking off. You laugh a little before jogging after him. 

Baby glares in annoyance as you clear his freshly set highscore on the arcade’s FPS game. Baby stands by your side, arms crossed watching your score begin to sky rocket beyond his, so much so he’s unsure he’ll be able to beat you once you finally run out of time. 

“Stop cheating” Baby mutters with a mischievous smile as he pushes on you lightly trying to make you mess up. You shake his hands off your body and continue trying to gain an impossibly high score. 

“Take your loss with grace.” You argue back over your shoulder and hear Baby scoff as he keeps up his attempts to throw you off. 

‘Y-O-U L-O-O-S-E’ The text rolls onto screen after Baby grabbed your arms whilst you were rushing an in-game enemy. 

“Fuck!” You swear as your hands drop to your sides and Baby throws his arms up in victory. 

“You’re such a fucking shithead” You continue with a glare at him and he just smiles in turn. 

“I know you are but what am I?” 

“...” 

“That wasn’t as funny as it was in my head…” 

You take the controls one last time to enter your name in, or as much as you can enter into the box. The relinquishing controls back to Baby. 

Baby takes 3 more attempts back to back to back and still isn’t able to beat your highscore. Baby’s closest attempt was still about 250 points short of your score. Baby seethes in rage as he watches the game over screen one final time. 

“This shit is rigged” 

“Or you need to get good” 

“Fuck you” 

“You wish. You wanna play another game?” 

“Sure why not.” 

You struggle to catch your breath as Baby skillfully follows the steps of the game you’d found in the corner of the arcade. 

“Wait” 

“What can’t handle it?”

“I can. Just fuck you’re going so fast.” 

“It’s not that hard to do this” 

“Easy for you to say” 

“I think this might be my end”

You struggle to keep up as Baby completes all the steps to another dance with near perfection. As the song comes to an end you groan and pant looking at your score in comparison to his. 

“This isn’t right. How do you do that.” 

“I just followed the steps.” Baby says with a smirk on his face. He even does a little spin in victory and your face scrunches. 

“Rematch.” You mutter as you stretch a little glaring at Baby. 

“You sure? You  look like you might drop.” Baby teases and you groan.

“Shut up and put in your token.” You curse, Baby snickers. 

You crouch down and lean against the railings of the arcade game after losing to Baby a fourth time in a row. Baby comes round to your side and joins you on the floor with a warm smile. 

“You doing okay? You get it out your system?”  Baby hums and you groan and punch his shoulder lightly. 

“You’re inhuman.” You mutter under your exasperated breaths then let out a deep breath. 

“I need a minute, can you get me a drink?” You mutter. When you get no response you glance over at Baby and notice he’s staring off a little distantly. 

“Baby?” 

“What?” Baby mutters looking at you.

“Oh yeah.. Uhm you can go have a seat over there I’ll be back with a drink for you” Baby says as he gets up and walks out the arcade back into the night market. 

A little while after Baby went out to get a drink he comes back to the arcade and you’re standing by the door waiting for him. 

“I thought I told you to wait for me inside.” 

“It felt weird just sitting around inside by myself” You mutter and he nods in understanding. He holds out a Boba to you and you sigh. 

“I was expecting a soda” You say as you take the straw and drive it through the seal.

“Well I thought boba would make you happier.” Baby softly answers with a light smile.

“Alright… You wanna go do something else?” You ask Baby. 

“Uhm yeah, I think we could walk ‘round for another hour or two” Baby responds holding out his hand for you to take hold of. 

Both you and Baby continue a peaceful stroll through the bustling night market. You stop at a merch stall and Baby begins looking at all the merch they had on offer from you. Meanwhile you look through the Saja Merch for anything distinctly Baby. You pick up a couple of photocards and start sifting through them trying to find at least one of Baby.

“What you looking for?” Baby asks as he looks over at you, noticing the photocards in your hands. 

“Why’re you going to pay for those, they’re barely worth it.” Baby mutters under his breath. “Not to mention not as good looking.” Baby continues.

“The one I want looks to be sold out, and there’s also no merch here from him either.” You say with a sigh setting down the photocards. 

“Oh yes Baby Saja merch is very limited and what I do get sells out fast.” The vendor chimes in. “But I’m sure there’s another idol here that you like,” the vendor continued with a warm smile. 

“He’s not looking for any others though.” Baby snaps at the vendor. 

“Baby.” You scold in surprise then pause realising you’d called him Baby without thinking about it. 

“Oh you two are boyfriends, well we have couple merch too.” The vendor then goes over to the side of their stall with your merch on it and brings over a matching bracelet set, themed off your debut album. 

“Wait we’re not” You try to explain but the vendor cuts you off. 

“No no don’t worry I’m not judging but look how good this looks. Buy this for your boyfriend, yeah?” The vendor hums looking between the two of you. 

You sigh as you realise that explaining yourselves isn’t likely to work. Baby just stares at the vendor for a brief moment before sighing and pulling out his wallet. 

“We’re friends, but we still want them if that’s alright.” Baby explains to the vendor. 

“Oh. Okay then…” The vendor mumbles. “Yes its alright” They speak up then pack away the bracelets for the two of you. 

Walking away from the stall you laugh a little to yourself. The vendor wasn’t wrong for being confused, two guys wearing near identical clothes, and you literally called him ‘baby’ to their face. Of course they’d be confused. 

“That was a close one.” You sigh and then take the bag with the bracelets from Baby. YOu inspect them closely. 

“These are half as good as the ones I gave out to the VIP’s at my first concert.” You mutter tossing one of the bracelets up and catching it once more in your palm. 

“You gave out these before?” 

“I mean yeah, the majority of my discography is love songs, of course I made couples merch.” You retort and he scoffs. 

“We make love songs you don’t see us selling couple merch.” 

“Your love songs are more toxic though. Like become a worse version of yourself and I’ll love you more.” You argue and he gasps. 

“No we don't, we make healthy songs about love.” 

“Look if it were left up to fans, they’d all say I’d be a healthier boyfriend than you.” 

“What makes you so confident?” 

“Thank you for the pain ‘cause it got me goin viral” 

“Stop, that was a different time and different era of my life. I’m a changed man. I’m a father now.” Baby tries to argue but you’re not having it. 

“Oh please. You’re not reformed, just packed differently. Same taste, new package with your blueberry headed ass.” You interject and he scoffs.

You and Baby enjoy the rest of your evening together at the night market. You buy a few more small trinkets and enjoy a couple more dishes from street stalls and little stores. Overall, the night you two spent together had to be the best of all the hangouts you’ve had so far. 

Author’s Post-Note: Okay more of a filler chapter today, sorry about that, just needed to get back into the groove of writing, also I needed a transition as the story begins picking up and what I have in mind for the next chapter wouldn’t have been the best to do that with so here we are, hope you all still enjoyed this chapter just as much as the others. Anyways that's all from me for now, see you all in the next part. OH one last thing, if you guys have any other fandoms you’d like to see me write for please let me know!!!

Tag: @ravenspireshoardoftrinkets

Series Parts: A0, A1, A2, A3, A4, A5 [here], A6, A7 Intro Post / Masterlist

[soft4changbin]

All the little things

Jiung x childhood bestie!reader

Summary: A cozy night in turns unexpectedly emotional when your best friend shares a new song — and the lyrics reveal a truth he’s been quietly carrying for years.

Word count: 1,098

You’ve always loved nights like this — low lights, tangled blankets, and Jiung’s playlist humming softly through the speakers.

It’s not unusual for you to be in his room like this. You’ve done it a hundred times. Maybe a thousand. Movie nights that turn into sleepovers. Laughter echoing through half-empty chip bags. Late-night talks about the universe and heartbreak and everything in between.

But tonight feels different.

He’s been quiet. Not his usual “zone-out-while-he’s-creating” quiet — this is something else. Something thoughtful. A little nervous.

You glance up from where you’re lying on his bed. “Hey. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Jiung looks up from his laptop, startled. “Nothing.”

You raise a brow. “Liar.”

He hesitates, then slides the laptop toward you. “Can I show you something?”

You sit up and cross your legs, curious. “Of course.”

He hits play.

A slow beat fades in — gentle guitar, soft keys, a rhythm you’ve never heard from him before. It’s not his usual sound. It’s… tender. Personal.

Then his voice filters in. Quiet. Honest. Almost vulnerable.

You blink. The lyrics hit hard. They sound like your inside jokes. The way you steal his hoodies. The way your laugh always makes him smile. A line about how you hate the cold but still drag him out to stargaze. Another about the way you hum when you’re concentrating.

And then—

“You don’t even know all the little things I love about you.”

Your breath catches.

You look at him, and he’s already watching you — his fingers fidgeting slightly, eyes unreadable.

“Jiung,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” he says quickly. “I was just writing. I wasn’t going to show you at first, but then it… felt wrong not to. Like keeping it in would hurt more.”

Your heart is pounding.

“How long?” you ask.

He blinks. “How long what?”

“How long have you… felt this way?”

Jiung lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. Maybe since we were fifteen and you let me cry on your shoulder even though I said I was fine. Or when you made me that ugly friendship bracelet that I still wear under my sleeves.”

You laugh, teary-eyed. “It was not ugly.”

“It was neon green and lopsided.”

You both laugh, and something shifts in the air — the kind of shift you can’t undo. The kind that’s been building for years.

He looks at you again. “I didn’t want to risk messing things up. But writing that song made me realize I already was. By not saying anything.”

You’re quiet for a moment, staring down at your hands. Then you look up.

“I’ve been in love with you for a while too.”

Jiung freezes. “Wait. You—?”

You nod. “I thought maybe it was just comfort. Or familiarity. But then I’d see you singing with your eyes closed, or hear your laugh in the kitchen, or get a random text that made my whole day better, and I’d just… know.”

His whole face softens — like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally lets it go.

“Come here,” he murmurs, opening his arms.

You crawl into his lap without hesitation, wrapping your arms around him. He hugs you back tightly, one hand on your back, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes.

“I really liked the song,” you whisper.

“I wrote it for you,” he whispers back.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not dramatic or rushed. Just soft and slow and warm — the way it always was between you. Like everything in your friendship has been leading here.

When you finally pull away, you rest your forehead against his and smile.

“I guess you don’t have to keep it a demo anymore.”

He grins. “You think people will listen?”

“I think they’ll fall in love with it.”

He looks at you, thumb brushing your cheek. “Too late. Already happened to me.”

[yeepyz]

baby, you wouldn’t last a minute on the creek.

⋆ synopsis—you’ve given hints to wanting more, but your actual attempt at asking toji to be official goes awry.

⋆ content—angst, (i guess?) yearning, clueless toji, or ignorant toji, swearing, ‘now kith,’ what defines a relationship?

⋆ pairing—situationship!toji/fem!reader

⋆ creds to chiodos for music, playlist here

“we say what we feel then we stop ourselves—we just walk away.”

⋆ a/n—okayyy i’ve hyped this one up a LOT so i hope it does as well as the other works :) finally found a free night bc i’ve been hella occupied with preparing for music university (i got in, yay!!) which also means i might not be writing as much—my apologies!!

usually, counting down the minutes to toji’s arrival at your apartment was exciting and adrenaline-inducing. the rush of waiting for your hookup—or whatever you two called it—to strut in was a bit addictive, if someone were to ask you.

as every anecdote goes, tonight was the exception, for a few reasons.

firstly, your nerves were already on edge—because you were hoping to make things official between you both, and it was already like you were in a relationship with how often toji came over for reasons other than sex—and his frequent tardiness wasn’t helping.

then, obviously, there was the latter, his tardiness. you’ve been counting how many minutes have passed since he texted you that he was driving over—seventeen and a quarter—and it felt like too many.

to make awful matters even worse, you’d asked him to come a bit earlier than originally planned, mostly because of your eagerness. he was currently ten minutes late to the original time planned—eight in the evening—making him a good forty minutes late.

when your spiraling had reached its peak, the door to your apartment had been opened and in walked toji, glancing to the kitchen—where you’d made dinner for the both of you—before looking back to you.

“…you’re late” you murmured, trying and failing miserably to be unbothered.

he rolled his eyes at that, mumbling to himself about you ‘being on his ass already.’

“seriously,” you piped up again, “like, almost an hour.”

“i’ll just leave, then,” he shrugged.

when he started opening the door again, you immediately shook your head fervently and protested.

“hey, hey—don’t walk away,” you pleaded with a frown tugging on your lips.

“you’re bein’ clingy.”

toji did that often—call you clingy whenever you asked him to stay or make plans. it’d become a habit when his wife died, to dismiss other people’s concerns and interests in him as overbearing or too much, because it wasn’t his wife asking him to stay anymore.

though, that was a few years ago by now—you knew that grief lingered for a long time, almost forever, but was that a good justification for his shallow demeanor anymore?

“why’d you want me to come early, anyway?”

“y’knew i was working,” he raised an eyebrow at you.

in a few seconds, too many things happened at once. for one, you snapped—because you were so jumpy and wanted to get over with the whole ‘asking him out’ thing—and your voice was suddenly a bit louder and more irritated.

maybe it was the consistency of him pushing you away, or maybe it was you growing tired of relentlessly trying to get closer to him.

“to ask you to be my boyfriend, but i think we’re past that.”

“acting like we’re datin’, or something,” he muttered under his breath, at the same time you spoke.

he’d done that a lot, too. he seemed to like reminding you consistently that you weren’t in a relationship.

normally, it’d make you upset or sad, but you had a plan, and you were going to stick to it.

but the words you’d blurted out made him pause and look from his feet back to you again, his eyes betraying his near-bewilderment and incredulity.

“i want to be,” you swallowed nervously before raising your chin, “dating, i mean—i wanna be together, for real.”

he was already turning toward the door again—like he usually did when he got too close to being vulnerable—and you protested again.

“stop walking away!”

“we’re not datin’,” he muttered again.

your fingers caught his wrist, which made him hesitate again.

“i want to be,” you repeated quietly, “i wanna try, at least.”

“what does that mean to you?”

he was turning back to face you again, eyes calculating—or trying to—and searching for anything other than the genuineness in your own.

“i dunno,” you breathed out, a little shocked that he was still standing in front of you.

you hadn’t really thought this far.

“seeing each other for more than sex—“

“we already do that,” he interrupted.

“—and, like, being closer with each other,” you continued, “you know, staying with each other even when we’re emotional and fucked up.”

something flashed in his eye—you couldn’t tell what, but something did.

all he saw was a future, for the second time ever, and it was with you.

him letting his guard down, and you staying. it was stupid, at first, to even consider letting himself be that—himself.

but you were trying, pretty hard, at that, to get him to understand that you meant what you said.

and that was what got to him.

that you—someone as pretty and sweet as you—or anyone in general wanted to know him, to see him.

if this were to happen a year ago, he would’ve been terrified and walked out right away. but it was now, and things had happened since then—meeting you, for example.

he was silent for a long while, before finally parting his scarred lips, and then, “okay.”

your eyebrows nearly shot to your hairline in shock.

“really?”

“don’t make me repeat myself,” he breathed out.

“sorry—yeah, okay,” you nodded slowly.

“what now?”

he tilted his head slightly as he asked, his guard already falling down—even if a little—because someone was actually trying to see him.

not a hit man, not money, just…toji.

and, to his surprise, he was okay with it.

“eating dinner would be a good start,” you mumbled, gesturing to the kitchen.

“then, we can just…be together, you know?”

“yeah,” he nodded once, already following you to the kitchen, “i can live with that.”

and he would, until the both of you got married.

it was a funny thing—sitting with you, a few years later, and thanking every star there was that he hadn’t walked away, nor stopped himself from expressing his thoughts to you in late-night conversations and loving, and learning to be loved again.

he was pretty happy with living with that, if you asked him.

⋆ a/n—okayyy what if i told u that i hate this one too ToT idk wtf it is i just don’t like any of my writing!! but enjoy ig…

⋆ please do not copy, plagiarize, or post my works to third-party sites. tag me in any inspired works from my own ⋆

[phoebepheebsphibs]

So for those curious, the story was actually inspired during the TMNT AU comp crossover between Mama Bear, No Fun in Fungus, and DM Mikey

There was a point where I was throwing ideas at Boots ( @boots-with-the-fur-club ) and mentioned that I’d imagined Raph singing the song “Polyphemus” from Epic, but from the perspective of the cyclops. I went on a whole “what-if” rant about DM Mikey actually dying during the crossover and the Hand.PNG offering a new Mikey it had taken from the competition as compensation.

I then furthered this “what-if” by writing a small blurb, which I shall now share:

He looked down at the tired and scared Michelangelo in his arms. Raph gently stroked his forehead, moving the strands of jet black hair so he could see his face better. This Mikey had hair, salt and peppery with a stray grey strand here and there. What kind of universe had the Hand found where there was a lone Mikey, forced to fulfill his role of greatest magic warrior so early in his life? He was barely DM Mikey’s age, possibly younger. And yet, he already had hair and scars that scattered across his face. Raph’s eyes watered as the kid slept in his reluctant embrace.

“… I look into your eyes and I… think back to the brother of mine… you’re as old as he was when we fought our krang.”

He tried to cradle the boy. He closed his eyes and pretended it was his Mikey. He was almost fooled. Almost.

“…Will these actions haunt my days? Foes I failed to slay? Is the price I pay endless pain?”

Raph opened his eyes and looked down at the sleeping teen, nestled closely against his chest. This boy, this kid barely 15 had been so desperate for a family he hadn’t even fought back against the Hand.PNG for getting snatched away from his dimension. He’d actually leapt at the chance (once he gathered his bearings) and tried to beg them to reconsider the Hand’s proposal and take him with them. While they’d been against it at first, circumstances and misfortune had worked in his benefit, and now he was heading ‘home’ with them. A newly adopted brother and son. But Raphael couldn’t just… forget and move on. This wasn’t Mikey. He could never be his Mikey.

“…Close your eyes, and spare yourself the view.”

Raph… he wanted to leave him here. Leave him to roam the competition compounds, or find a home with Julia and Luke in some inter-dimensional foster care system. He wanted to abandon him here. God help him, but he couldn’t keep this kid. He couldn’t even look at him without either crying or filling up with rage over everything that had happened. But… he knew he could never do that to him.

“How could I hurt you?”

Raph felt himself crying, found himself bringing the teen closer and cradling him like a baby, like how he always did when holding his… brothers.

“I’m just a teen, who’s trying to go home — even after all I’ve lost and those that I have known — I’m just a guy, trying to do what’s right. That’s who I am, who I’ve been my entire life; I’m just a kid.”

He looked down again at the tiny soldier in his hands.

“…But when… does a comet become a meteor? When does a candle become a blaze? When does a kid become a warrior? When? Does a ripple become a tidal wave? When does the reason become the blame? When do I become the monster?”

Raphael felt himself stand, still holding the unfamiliar Michelangelo in his arms. He still had time to drop him off somewhere before the exit portal was activated.

“Forgive me…”

Raph tiptoed away from the group, looking for Julia’s daycare. It couldn’t be that far, right? And surely she’d do a better job finding a family for this guy! Right?

“Forgive me…”

This kid was dead asleep in his arms, whatever he’d been pulled from must have really exhausted him.

“Forgive me…!”

Whatever he’d been pulled from must’ve been tough.

“…I’m just…”

It must’ve hurt. Losing your family like that. Being forced to fight for your life every single day. Being alone. Scared. Scarred. Guilty that you were the one unscathed when they were the ones who deserved to be okay. Maybe… this was his Mikey, after all.

“I’m just… your brother,” Raph whispered.

He headed back to the portal, with the Michelangelo. He needed them. And… they probably needed him.

what if i told you i had a secret last ronan au

[king-candybug-backup]

Oh my gosh, ANOTHER new chapter coming already!? Take some breaks dude!!! Genuine question, how do you write SO much SO fast and STILL have it feeling this high quality? Is there a method to your madness??? (Amazing work so far btw!)

WHEN I SAID CHAPTER 11 AND 12 WERE BEING MAJOR ROADBLOCKS, I MEANT IT LMFAO, NOW THAT I AM FREED FROM THOSE SHACKLES I AM ON ONE HELL OF A ROLL!!!

In all honesty, a lot of my “speed” actually comes down to laziness and lack of skill, lmao. Don’t get me wrong, I’m EXTREMELY happy people are enjoying the fic this much, but I do think there are some objective flaws with it that often get overlooked. And it’s not like that’s particularly BAD, it’s just fanfic and I’m doing this solely for fun lmao, but it isn’t quite what I’d consider “high-quality” to that extent. I’ve spoken before about having trouble with some technical stuff like consistent POV and describing scenery, but there’s some bigger issues, too.

For an example of what I mean, I straight-up gloss over scenes that are too difficult for me to write out in full. The part in chapter 4 of Vanellope telling Sugar Rush that King Candy was still alive and working with them was something that ABSOLUTELY should’ve been shown directly rather than something talked about after it had already happened. Same for Vanellope’s fight with Taffyta this latest chapter, it was 100% something that should’ve been its own scene, and I had planned for both of these to be their own scenes at the time, but I just straight-up could not get my brain to cooperate on how to write them. Types of scenes like that, ones that I know for a fact will give me major creative blocks in trying to figure them out, are ones that I usually choose to instead turn into narrative commentary explaining what happened rather than showing it. There’s not actually a whole lot of scenes that get this treatment, but there have been a good chunk of things that were supposed to happen a certain way, but I could not get it feeling right on paper, so I rework or disregard the scene and move on. It’s not a very good thing to do on a quality-assurance level, but I am not a professional writer and I refuse to hold myself to those standards when I’m doing this for fun and for free, lmao. (The only thing that’s important for me to handle more carefully/correctly is the NPD representation, since there’s such horrible stigma irl in the way people view it, but that part of writing is my bread and butter and NEVER gives me creative issues since it’s my main inspiration and I love writing it, so that’s not a problem in this particular situation.) So yeah, I think it would objectively make the fic better if I went into more depth regarding stuff like the political/emotional side of what’s going on for Sugar Rush’s citizens throughout this mess, but I personally don’t have fun trying to figure out how to do that well, and I’m doing this mainly for my own enjoyment, so that’s what I’m going to prioritize, lol. I enjoy writing King Candy and the core four’s shenanigans the most, so they are what gets my focus. I think the fic is still enjoyable enough even though I’m not fleshing out everything that I should be, so frankly I don’t really care about trying to make myself do that at the detriment of my own motivation, lol. Besides which, I know other people are enjoying the story regardless of the flaws I think it has, so it’s like, whatever, as long as everybody’s having fun, who really cares, anyway. 😂 (And btw I’m not saying that as if I think people shouldn’t be allowed to dislike the fic or how parts of it are handled lmfao, obviously that’s stupid and I’m straight-up in agreement that there are flaws with it, I’m just saying that I’m gonna stick with writing it exactly how I want to, even though I know there are things that could be way better if I sacrificed a lot more mental energy to follow through. I’m just deadass NOT willing to do that extra sacrifice, lmfao)

[javierduffy]

“uh … it’s a bit girly … no?” javier examines himself in the reflection of his knife’s blade, looking this-a way and that, the dark blue of a large silken bow now peeking sheepishly around his neck as it sits gently in his hair. next to him, kieran clams up a smidge, hands still held close to his chest nearby his completed ribbon project on javier’s head. he finds it in himself to wring his hands a time or two rather than immediately undo his work as javier seems to continue to formulate his final opinion. “you … think so? look at me?” kieran asks, politely as a mouse. javier easily complies, turns at his hips and looks behind, up at kieran where he sits on the stump above him.

kieran, as he peers over, can’t help the meadow of flush that blooms over his neck, then his ears, then his nose and his cheeks. he can tell javier is deep in thought by the look on his face, mouth twisted just a might sideways, cocking his mustache awry, and the deep wrinkle sat between his brows. the ribbon he used matches javier’s vest perfectly, and the shine of the silk warms bright in the sun, just like every piece of jewelry and metal javier has adorned himself with. with this ribbon, javier’s hair sits lower on his head, ponytail draped down his nape and more hair framing his face in his bangs. kieran resists an urge to tuck one side back behind his ear.

kieran thinks that he looks like a painting, a muse, a love letter so heartbreakingly full of adoration that the only language it could be written in is bright swipes of pigment on a canvas. as he makes eye contact with the silk squinting around the red of a necktie, he thinks that javier may be right, if ‘girly’ could sum up ’poetry written in effeminate reverence’.

kieran always did think women made better art, wrote better books- found a better way to love. softer. warmer. prettier. like javier.

the world sounds like it’s underwater.

“i think … it’s very pretty. it suits you real well.”

earnest to a fault, the look in kieran’s eye dances gingerly with javier’s internal voice. it dips and sways him, and javier, despite his instinct, finds himself charmed by its rhythm.

“-b-but! i could take it out! if you don’t-“ javier looks down at himself in his knife again, the sunlight filtered through the leaves glinting a yellow green around his dark features, and kieran hands him patience on a silver platter. a rich blue makes friends with bright green quite easy, javier thinks. this is how he must look through kieran’s mossy lens.

“pretty … yes. you know, i think you may be right. i’ll keep it. gracias.”